The Bodyguard
by JSBG
Summary: After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.
1. prologue

**Title: ** The Bodyguard [Prologue]  
><strong>Pairings &amp; Characters: <strong>Santana/Brittany, Quinn/Rachel and mentions of other Glee casts and relationships.  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Summary: <strong>After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However, where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her, really... It was just beginning.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **AU - This is set in an alternate universe where Santana is a bodyguard, Brittany is a celebrity, Quinn is her PA, Rachel is just as annoying as always, and Puck is… Well, Puck. Their lives have barely any connection to the canon story line and I don't own any characters unless stated.  
><strong>AN: **Thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!

**Word Count: **2000

* * *

><p>Santana never had a best friend, but her close colleague Mike Chang was the closest thing she'd made to one in her military years. So when her unit had been ambushed and when one of the men ran at him with a six-inch blade, her defensive training had kicked in. Sure, the six-inch blade wasn't much, and was absolutely nothing compared to the heavy weaponry Santana and her unit were used to, but the young Afghan was incredibly skilled in the blade department.<p>

Anderson, one from Santana's unit, had gone down first as the attacker used one quick swipe to slice his throat in half. And as he'd lunged for Chang, Santana stepped in as a protection instinct - however they'd struggled, and after being knocked to the floor, and just before the Latina could recover herself, the blade had pierced her left hand, entering through the back and exiting out the palm.

A single shot from her Desert Eagle was enough to take the attacker down, and after making sure that the rest of her unit was safe - the extent of her injury kicked in. She was rushed back to base where the camp medic examined her hand, and told her instead of removing the blade, and possibly damaging muscles and nerves which could ultimately render her incapable of using her left hand, she needed to see someone with a little more experience.

Her leading officer, Colonel St. James, took the medic's advice and gave her strict medical leave, where she'd travel back to the States within twenty-four hours.

Santana wasn't exactly pleased with this decision, for several reasons. First of all, the military was her life. Second, she still had a goddamn knife lodged in her hand (which was causing excruciating painful). And last but not least, she knew St. James was only doing this because he was her male superior, and still had irrational beliefs that the military should only be reserved for males.

Even the years of training her body to ignore pain, due to intense military drills and deep gashes from random flying pieces of debris shooting off and scarring her body, wasn't enough to fight the agony emanating from her left hand. But the knowledge that her arch nemesis was getting his way was more than the physical pain she was enduring. But, reluctantly, Santana followed her orders, hoping that'd give her some lee-way when she wanted to return. Within three hours, she was on a military plane, flying back to the States with the six-inch blade still inserted into her hand.

She'd been given some Morphine and had to take one of the medics back with her, just in case of any medical emergency, but it still wasn't comforting to know she was being ripped away from the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in her life. Santana arrived back in the States fourteen and half hours later, and by the seventeenth hour, she was being scheduled to go into the theatre for some muscle and nerve correction as the blade had damaged some of the most important tissues in her hand.

Unfortunately, she awoke the next day with bad news. Apparently, according to Doctor Holliday, a tall blonde who'd been treating Santana since she was a little girl, told her it'd be wise to take maybe one or two year leave from the military as her hand wouldn't properly heal until then. Once again, much to her dismay, Colonel St. James agreed to this over a Skype session with Dr. Holliday, and Santana had been officially discharged from service as her skills were no longer up to scratch.

Santana, _obviously,_ was thoroughly pissed off by this, and she swore that if it wasn't for her current state, she'd punch the smug Colonel's smile off his face - despite being left handed and wounded.

* * *

><p>After a few nights in hospital, she returned back to her home in Lima Heights - one she hadn't seen in six long years. The outside was pretty much the same. It was a four bedroom house, one she had no use for, but her father's career as a Doctor had allowed her to be spoiled as a child, well up until the age of nine anyway.<p>

It was a duller shade of white, and several vines of ivy had set up home on the sides - but the small garage with the strong roof and large trampoline visible in the back garden from the small white picket fence still remained. That roof, _damn, _so many memories.

As soon as she approaches the front door wearing a dark, racing green army uniform and one hand carrying her medium sized army duffel bag containing the last six years of her life - she suddenly regrets trying to defend her colleague. But ultimately, she was a unit leader and due to her rank, she would've been looked down upon if she hadn't done such a thing. But the military _was_ her life, there'd been nothing outside of it after her father's death, and one little injury rendered her incapable of living it.

Santana was pretty sure that's what attracted her to the military, and what made her excel in her ranks in such a short amount of time. She had no responsibilities, nothing waiting for her back in Lima, so it didn't really matter if she died or lived out in Afghanistan. As depressing as it was to admit it, she kind of hated the fact that no one would miss her; no one would really _know _she was dead because no one knew she was even there. Sure, she'd made friends in middle school and her freshman year, but as soon as she'd moved to Buckland with her Aunt, they'd lost contact. Noah Puckerman had been one of her best friends for those difficult six years of looking after her father, but even they hadn't kept in contact after she moved.

Santana shakes herself back into present day, and exhales heavily after realising how _alone_ she really was. It's an uncomfortable feeling, but it wasn't anything she hadn't been able to wrap her head around in the past few years. She slides the key into the lock, and with a single turn the door creaks open.

Her eyes take in her surroundings and allow the foreign air to sink into her lungs. Her feet are currently buried in mounds of letters, envelopes and magazine subscriptions, blocking the door from opening completely. The brunette twists her body and slides through the gap, into the grand foyer with a rather large staircase and dulled white marble banisters.

It was exactly how she'd left it, the furniture covered with thick white sheets preventing and dust damage in the living room to the left of the foyer, and the floors were no longer shiny hardwood, they'd dulled down to rough floorboards. To her right is the dining room, which used to hold a six seated mahogany table with matching, fabric upholstered chairs - but now it's vacant.

She assumed it was her aunt that'd done all this whilst she was away, considering she'd just moved to Buckland with a small bag and locked the door behind her like she was returning later, furniture still in place and TV on standby upstairs. After graduating from university with her degree, she joined the military and was off to Afghanistan before she could even go back to Lima and sort out arrangements there. So her Aunt had taken up this duty and obviously cleared everything up.

Arriving home was a pretty big deal. Instead of reminiscing over the painful memories of her dead father and abandoning mother, she shrugs off her bag, leaving it to collide with the floor with a satisfying thud as she moves into the kitchen to find some cleaning supplies.

* * *

><p>A couple of hours later, the house is a lot cleaner. The furniture is no longer covered, the dust is no longer plaguing the house under several layers, and the house doesn't smell of moth balls. Santana lazily walks around the house, brushing her fingertips over the newly polished photographs of her as child, around five or six with her mother and father in the back yard. She smiles at the memory - it was the first day of summer and the sun was making a heated appearance - and it was before everything got fucked up.<p>

She inhales and exhales deeply, dipping her head as heat pricks at her eyelids. Her legs make an unconscious decision and mope around the house, leading her to the kitchen as her stomach growls with hunger. Santana opens the fridge to see absolutely nothing inside, not that she's surprised. Why _would _there be groceries? The house has been empty for God knows how long.

Next thing she knows, she's changed into army sweats and a thick strapped tank top, and walking out into the night sky of Lima, Ohio.

Luckily, her leg muscles still have a map of Lima programmed into them, and she walks straight to Seven-Eleven where she picks up a packet of chicken noodles and a six pack of beer. The teenage attendant looks up at her with wide eyes, almost in recognition, but it fades as she pastes a _don't-talk-to-me _expression and waves her injured hand in the air.

She pays for the items and leaves, her body covering in goose bumps as chilled air collides with her olive skin. Her legs start moving faster in reaction, and within a few minutes she's back at her house, settling into her sofa with a can of beer and a bowl of piping hot noodles. She flicks through the channels on the TV, realising her Aunt must not have cut off the cable as it still has over 500 channels. Pretty stupid considering Clarissa (her aunt) has probably been paying the bills for no-one, but screw it, she was always a bitch.

There's a comforter hanging over the back of her sofa, and she decides to grab it, settling down her half-full bowl and snuggles inside the cotton blanket, suddenly becoming very nostalgic with the presence of familiar surroundings. A random cartoon flickers on screen, she must have rolled on the remote or something, but she can't be bothered to change it. Plus, it helps with the nostalgia, kind of. Okay, not at all. It is _Scooby-Doo_ after all, her and... Her favorite program as a kid.

About four beers later, she feels the sleep pulling her body into a slumber and looks around the empty house, examining the moonlight highlighting her backyard through the kitchen doors. A few family memories race through her mind as darkness tugs at her eyelids, leading her into what she's expecting to be a deep sleep. It's a long time coming, and the combination of exhaustion and repressed thoughts has certainly taken it out of her.

"I guess this is my life now," she breathes into the desolate house, feeling the loneliness sink into her chest as sleep overcomes her.


	2. chapter one

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter One]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>1700

* * *

><p>A knock at the door startles the Latina, and she jumps up in reaction. Since she joined the army, her body had been trained to wake up at even the quietest sound, so it surprised her that she hadn't heard footsteps walking up the path.<p>

The house is now completely dark, the TV had obviously shut off by the programmed switch she'd had installed before her father died - due to the cable bills sky-rocketing as he'd pass out due to alcohol consumption and leave it on. She rubs her eyes as she swings her legs over the side of the sofa, and pushes up. It's been two hours since she fell asleep, and her beer can is lying lopsided on the floor with a sticky, beer trail staining the hardwood floor.

It takes a few steps before she's standing in front of the door, leaning on her tip toes to peer through the spy hole to see a large, shadowed, muscular figure standing with the moonlight behind him. She can't see his facial features and goes to slide the chain lock in place - but after deciding that she'd been able to kick most of her unit's asses back in Afghanistan, a Lima resident definitely wouldn't be a problem.

Santana opens the door and is startled by the figure in front of her. Her jaw drops as the dark green eyes sparkle at her. She stands in the doorway, completely gob-smacked as Noah Puckerman, her ex best friend stood smiling.

"Lopez!" he yells, stepping forward and engulfing the Latina in a tight embrace. She returns it and swallows, completely lost for words.

"Noah? Wh-what are you d-doing h-here?" she asks, confusion lacing her tone.

He shrugs and punches her lightly in the shoulder, like they never stopped talking, "Heard you were back in town. Evans saw you in Seven-Eleven and called me straight away, and now here I am."

* * *

><p>Sam Evans - Noah Puckerman's best friend in high school and her ex-lover. Noah had introduced them at a party once, and they'd hooked up the following night. Luckily, she'd allowed Puck to take her virginity, so it hadn't been awkward for her. But since Sam was apparently experienced, when they arrived in the bedroom and the blonde boy was shaking as he slid the condom on, it was evident that his story about hooking up with seven girls was a lie.<p>

However Santana still had the walls built around her heart, and still never got emotionally attached, no matter how many times she had sex with any guy. So when she moved to Buckland, and she didn't keep in touch with Puckerman or Sam, it hadn't affected her all that much.

Even though Sam was definitely one of her best friends.

* * *

><p>"Well, are you gonna let me in?" Puck says after a few moments of silence.<p>

Santana smiles, and nods, standing aside to let him in. "Yeah, c'mon."

Noah steps over the threshold, nodding in approval at the clean state of it, but tries to remain subtle as his brows scrunch together, probably noticing the lack of personal belongings from the last nine years of her life. Santana still sees it though, and makes a quick decision not to elaborate. It'll probably seem like she's trying to turn her '_poor me_' story into some sycophantic attempt for sympathy - and honestly? Screw that.

"So, what brings you here?" Santana asks, settling clearing her throat as he eyes up the pictures on the mantelpiece.

Puck walks over to the sofa, removing his hands from his pockets as he perches on the arm, one foot hanging above the floor whilst the other plants onto it. Santana shuffles, taking in just how much her old best friend has bulked up in the last few years. He's has certainly grown up, and boy, did the puberty fairy do well.

Her eyes rake over his body in a non-voyeuristic manner - noticing the change in his attire, which usually consisted of a t-shirt that frankly looked like it'd gone through a cheese-grater, and a pair of worn out jeans with matching scruffy sneakers. He's now sporting a pair of crisp, dark blue jeans, a smart, black blazer and a perfectly ironed, baby blue shirt underneath. His signature Mohawk's vanished, replaced by a short buzz cut, and his skinny frame has now bulked into muscular shoulders, toned arms and a broad chest. Sure, age has slightly wrinkled his skin, and only caused his smile to increase in charm and brightness - but his eyes have darkened with not the _travel-the-world_ kind of experience, the _bad-wrong-side-of-the-tracks_ experience. But Santana can't quite place it.

"Actually," Puck laces his fingers together on one thigh, "I'm here on official business."

Santana arches an eyebrow, "Official business?"

"Yeah," Puck nods, like it's obvious information, "I work in the U.S. Secret Service now. I've been sent here for you."

"For me?" Santana asks, trying to act nonchalant at the fact Puck now works for the Secret Service. During freshman year, it looked like he was heading for the electric chair, a dark, damp cell or an STD clinic. Never something a_s_ important and responsible as the Secret Service. That's just so _not _Puck. "What do you guys want with me?"

"Well a couple of weeks ago," Puck's voice echoes one of an ancient story teller, "Lieutenant Schuester, my superior, got a call from none other than Quinn Fabray."

Santana's jaw drops in response and her eyes widen, "Quinn!"

* * *

><p>Quinn Fabray - another one of Santana and Puck's school mates. She'd been a head cheerleader and came from a wealthy background - so her future was already on a positive outlook. Her father, Russell Fabray, owned his own Accounting company, and her mother had been a top lawyer.<p>

Towards the end of Santana's Lima Life, as she called it, her and Quinn's relationship really started to kick off. She'd always thought Quinn as one of her good friends, and she knows that if she hadn't moved to Buckland, they probably would've eventually become best friends.

* * *

><p>"Yep," Puck nods, "Anyway, apparently she's some big shot out in LA now, some celeb's personal assistant or some shit. Apparently they're in need of a bodyguard as the famous chick's been receiving threatening letters, and Quinn's frightened for the celeb's safety."<p>

Santana shakes her head. _Seriously?_ Threatening letters? She thinks it's ridiculous, especially as several images of her colleagues dying and being shot, pass through her mind. Put that in comparison with the high life of a celebrity, and suddenly threatening letters don't seem so bad. She inwardly snickers and turns the corners of her lips up into a small smile, "So? What's this have to do with me?"

Puck shuffles uncomfortably under her quizzical glare. Last time she checked, _she _should be shuffling uncomfortably at the mere presence of him. He looks so _official._ It's weird. "Well, your Colonel," Puck starts, "St. James, or something?" Santana nods in affirmation, "Yeah, he recommended you as we went looking for new members to train into the Secret Service."

Santana brows furrow, processing the words. St. James recommended her? When the hell did pigs start flying?

"Apparently you're the best of the best," he states like he doesn't quite believe it either, "and that's what Fabray wants for her boss."

Santana narrows her eyes, wondering what's in it for St. James. He's never like that, she's surprised he could even hold a conversation about her, considering how much she _knows_ he dislikes her. But it soon shrugs off as she realizes it's going to be two long years before she can actually ask him. Sadness slides into her chest and she sighs heavily, realizing Puck is suddenly awkward at the change of her emotion. "What if I don't do it?" Her voice is more intense than she wanted it to be, but it doesn't really matter. "I just got here and I'm not sure if I want to leave straight away."

Puck shrugs, "Then you don't. It'd be a shame, but right now there's not much anchoring you here, so I don't see why you wouldn't. It's a one-time offer, and they'll find someone else, but Quinn was pretty insistent on having you. Plus, you know, you wouldn't be alone."

"I'm not alone," Santana snaps.

Noah raises his hands defensively, "Woah, Lopez, chill, I was just saying."

"Well don't," she hisses, pushing off the sofa. She wanders around, crossing her arms over chest as she contemplates the decision. A photo on the mantelpiece catches her eyes, the same one as earlier and she halts in place. Her mother's smile makes her heart ache, and she wishes she knew where she was to comfort her in her lonely state. Her father's bright eyes catch her own next and she shakes her head, realizing the truth in her old best friend's words. She really _is_ alone. And staying here isn't going to help.

Eventually, after pausing for extra dramatic effect - something she learnt from Rachel Berry, _of course_ - she turns around to face Puck, nodding as his brows scrunch together, "I'll do it."

Puck grins, like he knew she'd give in all along, "Knew you'd give in."

They both stare at each other and something tingles down the Latina's spine. It's an unfamiliar feeling, something mixed between anticipation and excitement and she shudders. She doesn't know what's going to happen, but her heart is telling her whatever it is, is going to be good for her.

"So..." she starts, "What have I gotta do now?"


	3. chapter two

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Two]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>6400

* * *

><p>A month later, Santana has a black duffel bag packed with a few belongings - well the only ones she has - swung over her shoulder, and is in the back of a taxi, heading towards the Lima Allen County Airport. She glances at her new phone, an iPhone that Puck had said was the best on the market and despite the ridiculous price and unnecessary use, and most Secret Service agents had one. She didn't really see the point but she was a professional, and so she decided to go along with it.<p>

The car passes the Lost Creek Reservoir, memories of family trips invade her mind and wrench at her walled heart. She shakes her head, hoping the memories will slip out as the cab pulls in front of the airport. She hands over a twenty dollar bill, telling the driver to keep the change and to keep his eyes on the road instead of focusing on her cleavage visible through her white shirt. He gulps loudly and nods, obviously threatened by Santana's scowl and drives off with his tail between his legs.

It only takes a few minutes to check in. According to her instructions given by Noah, Secret Service get first priority in getting on the plane - something about double timing as an air marshal. She smiles at the redheaded receptionist in the first class lounge that does a double-take on Santana as she scans the Latina's dark blue skinny jeans and tight, white shirt, revealing just the right amount of cleavage.

She enters and approaches the small Starbucks in the corner, ordering a latte and paying the cashier. After receiving her order, she spots a small, vacant table in the corner of the room overlooking the runway and takes a seat, pushing her bag under the seat and propping her legs on the small window ledge.

Santana had spent the last month trying to heal while training for the Secret Service, and learning how to become a proper bodyguard. The training ended with a physical fitness exam as well as a theoretical one, but they were pretty much a walk in the park. The training was pretty intense but nothing compared to the Army, so when she was asked to demonstrate some self-defense moves, the instructor was pretty shocked as she threw him over her shoulder. The move hadn't done any justice for her hand as it tore one of the stitches, but considering her accelerated healing process, she didn't really care all that much.

Doctor Holliday had sent her a package a few days after arriving home. Inside was a tiny contraption designed to strengthen hand muscles after surgery. She'd looked at it doubtfully, and as she started to use it, she realized how painful it really was. But, if she was going to take this job seriously, and hopefully get back to Afghanistan as quickly as possible, she'd have to follow orders, which wasn't that hard for her as she'd been doing so since the age of 16.

* * *

><p>Around ten minutes later, Puck walks into the first class lounge wearing a pair of black jeans, light green shirt, and a smirk on his face. Santana knew that smirk from anywhere and shakes her head while smiling as she sips on the cup of coffee in her hand.<p>

"So, who was it?" she questions as he approaches her with his hands dug into his pockets.

Puck takes the seat opposite the Latina and leans over, grabbing the cup and bringing it to his nose, "Who was what?" he asks, sniffing and pasting a disgusted expression on his face.

"The girl. C'mon Puckerman, I'd know that smug look from anywhere. Who's the chick?"

The muscular man smirks again and returns the drink back down in front of Santana who grabs it and sips tentatively; she winces as the liquid was colder than expected as it slides down her throat.

Ever since she became friends with Puck in middle school, he was always a ladies man who loved to dish the dirt on his most recent hook up. During freshman year, he'd lost his virginity to a smoking hot blonde Junior, and hadn't stopped going on about it, right up until the Latina left.

Puck kept talking about the woman, describing every disturbingly juicy detail of his sexual conquest as they entered the plane. It was only when they took their seats that he finished.

"… So yeah, turns out the chick was married. Bummer," he ends, nodding as his eyes trail up the legs of the black haired air hostess who'd ushered them to their seats.

Santana scoffs and punches him lightly in the arm. "Keep it in your pants, Noah. I'm an official air marshal for the flight and I _will_ take your ass down."

"Who do you think made you an air marshal, babe?" he responds, with a chuckle on the words.

Santana smiles in response and settles back into the seat, awaiting take-off.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, they're up 20,000 feet and Santana's mindlessly flicking through the pages of a magazine, while Puck's flirting with the black haired air hostess who's twiddling her hair between her fore finger and thumb seductively.<p>

She glances up to see Puck running his hands up and down her arm, and she blushes as one of the passengers passes behind her, conveniently pushing her into Puck, breasts first. He chuckles throatily and wiggles his eyebrows at Santana when the hostess looks away. Puck beckons the hostess down and whispers something into her ear, causing her to blush and flutter her eyelids. With a wink, she giggles and turns away, pushing the cart to the other passengers as they hadn't received a drink in at least ten minutes due to Puck's libido.

Santana shakes her head and places the magazine down on the pull up table, before clasping her hands together and leaving them to lie on her stomach.

"So, what's the deal now?" she asks, shuffling further into her seat.

Puck stretches out his legs in front of him and crosses one ankle over the other. "Quinn's meeting us at the airport. We're going back to this famous chick's house. Quinn will decide whether she thinks you're suitable or not, and then we'll take it from there."

Santana widens her eyes. "Wait, I haven't even got the job yet?"

"Nah babe. This chick's pretty picky according to Quinn. Apparently her last bodyguard was like the best in the country, and since he left no one's been able to match up. They've seen like seven bodyguards and none of them have been acceptable," Puck answers as he presses down a tab, causing the TV to lift up out of its hidden spot.

"Fuck. You serious?" she replies, realizing the job wouldn't be as much of a walk in the park as she'd previously hoped.

Puck shrugs, "Yeah, but it's Quinn we're talking about. She's always been fucking prissy and picky. It's probably _her_ deciding the bodyguard isn't good enough, to be fair."

Santana nods slowly, glancing around the plane. "Yeah, guess so. So um, am I allowed to know this celeb's name?"

"Well actually babe, Q seems to think if you don't know her name, then you can't go around telling the press that some crazy ass stalker is going after her," Puck says nonchalantly. "You know, that's if you don't get the job."

The Latina raises an eyebrow. "Right, because Q knows I'm definitely like that."

"Yeah but things have changed babe. Q doesn't know you anymore, for all she knows you could be some maniac ex-army officer, seeking revenge on anyone for your damn clumsy injury," he jokes, nodding his head to Santana's hand.

The plane tilts slightly, causing a bag to slide out the overhead baggage carrier. Santana jolts her arm out, catching it just before it hits the ground.

"Ow, shit," she whispers as a fiery, painful explosion erupts in her hand from her injury. She releases the bag, and shakes her hand as if it's going away. The Latina places it in the storage area underneath her seat. She turns back to Puck who's staring at her wide-eyed, his mouth in an 'o' shape. "What?" she asks, darting her eyes around the plane.

The SS agent raises a forefinger and makes a circular motion. "Y-you just… You just caught that."

"Uh, yeah, and hurt my damn hand in the process," she replies, gritting her teeth.

Puck chuckles in disbelief. "Are you kiddin' me, Lopez?"

"Wha-"

"You have reactions like a freakin' cat!" he exclaims. "It's fucking crazy!"

Santana looks around the plane, mouthing 'sorry' to the several passengers who snapped their heads up at his language. "Puck, keep the swearing to a DL. There are kids on here," she says, gesturing to the mother and her two kids at the front.

"Shit, sorry," he responds, flashing a grin.

Santana lightly punches him in the arm with her good hand. "Jerk."

"You love me."

It's the Latina's turn to laugh. "Ha, yeah right Noah."

"Anyway, where'd you learn to do that?" he continues, nodding towards the small bag below her feet.

Santana sighs. "Army training. Something you get used to. You gotta be able to react within seconds. You always gotta be on edge, if not, one tiny mistake could lead to you or someone from your unit being shot."

Puck raises both eyebrows. "Shit man. Sounds like you know the feeling."

The Latina exhales again, feeling the sadness creep over her as she remembers one unfortunate mistake. "Yeah... I do."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Two Years Ago<strong>_

_Santana was walking along the edges of her base camp. She was dressed in heavy uniform, armed with an AK-47 and the sun beat down heavily against her olive skin. Every ray was a prickle to her skin, and due to the uniform she was sporting, her skin was forming a sheen layer of sweat._

_She wiped her hand over her brow, taking the moisture with it as her brown orbs scanned the desert. As she paced back and forth, she felt the grogginess from the lack of sleep crawl behind her eyelids, slowly trying to tug them down. Her right hand was carrying the base of the gun, while the tip was pointed over her shoulder, towards the sky._

"_Yo, Lopez!" a rough voice called._

_The Latina spun around to see one of her unit members, Matt Rutherford, standing in a beige t-shirt and camouflage pants, waving behind the army hummer near the entrance. She grinned and headed back towards him, not bothering to scan the area for anyone._

_She'd met Matt her first day in Afghanistan. They'd instantly clicked, due to a heated discussion over who was hotter, Natalie Portman or Mila Kunis. Him saying Natalie Portman and her arguing Mila Kunis' side. Santana had never been afraid of her sexuality. But it'd never come up, so when Matt had tried to kiss her, she felt kind of bad rejecting him._

_However somehow, it'd brought the two closer together. They'd stayed up that night, chatting about past relationships and things, and ultimately, they'd remained friends and fortunately continued to stay in the same unit as one another. Unlike all of her other friends, when she ranked up and became the commissioned officer, they stayed relatively close._

_As she walked towards him, she happened to miss the two Afghanis creeping behind the walls of the base camp. Matt had a large grin on his face, his bright white teeth brightening the summer day._

"_Sup Rutherford, shouldn't you be inside?" she asked, raising an eyebrow._

_He laughed, bringing his hand to his chest. "And you should be getting some sleep Lopez, you were on patrol for 17 hours last night. You need to be on edge."_

"_I am on ed-"_

_The Latina yawned, punctuating her sentence. Her arms came over the top of her head as she stretched, her AK-47 raised high above her._

_She almost missed the drop of Rutherford's face as his eyes flickered behind her._

_She almost missed how he lurched forward, and pushed Santana out the way._

_She almost missed the gunshot and piercing scream as a shot rang through the desolate area of the desert._

_Almost._

"_Matt!" she yelled, as Matt's muscular figure crumpled to the ground._

_Santana jumped forward with no regard to her own safety as she caught his body, his back pressing against the top of her thighs. Matt's brown orbs fluttered, trying to keep his eyes open. __She gasped and pressed her hand over the seeping wound just below his right peck, trying to apply pressure as warm liquid trickled over her fingers._

_Anger flashed through her as she heard the man lying in front of her gasp, trying to accumulate any source of air as the bullet seemed to have punctured his lung. __She grabbed her 9mm from its holster and snapped her head up, towards the two figures sprinting away from her. On instinct, she went trigger happy and fired in their direction, in any hope to cause any damage to the murderers. __Her jaw clenched and teeth gritted, sparks of anger tingled all around her body as the body of one of her friends lay withering in pain beneath her._

_A hand brought her out of her state, and she whipped her body around as she grabbed the hand from her shoulder, dropping her gun in the process. The body knelt to the ground and she looked down with blazing brown orbs at Mike, whose wrist was being bent at an unnatural angle, thanks to the Latina._

"_Lopez, stop," a deep voice demanded._

_Santana hesitated, her fingers applying more and more pressure as the Asian boys face twisted in pain. She turned her head to the side to see Colonel St. James standing next to her, face stern and eyebrows furrowed._

"_Santana stop now, or so help me you'll be going home faster than you can say goodbye," he continued._

_Her shoulders dropped, and her eyes turned glossy as the moisture built up behind them. She dropped Mike's hand, and he exhaled, grasping his wrist and rubbing it dramatically. Her knees gave way and she hit the ground, tears pouring out her eyes as Mike leant over again, engulfing the female soldier in a tight hug as her eyes found the lifeless body of Matt beside her._

"_I-It's m-my f-fault," she whimpered, releasing the Asian boy and crawling over to the body on the ground._

_Jesse crouched beside her, tentatively placing his palm at the middle of her back. Her immediate reaction was to flinch away. _Why was he being so nice?

"_Chang, Smith, Anderson, go. Get those fuckers," he commanded._

_Mike nodded, along with the two other soldiers and sprinted off into the distance, trying to follow the two Afghanis._

_Jesse rubbed her back in circular motions. "You couldn't have done anything. It was either you or him."_

_Santana scrunched her face up, bringing her forehead down to Matt's unmoving chest, "If I'd l-listened t-to h-him…"_

"_No Lopez. Shit like this happens. You couldn't have done anything," Jesse said firmly._

_Santana didn't bother responding as the sobs took over her lungs. She whimpered into his chest, wondering how she was going to explain to his 2 year old daughter that because she hadn't slept, consequentially leaving her off edge, the little girl's father was lying lifeless in her arms._

* * *

><p>"Damn," Puck says, shuffling in his seat as if he feels awkward. "That's um… damn."<p>

Santana nods sadly. "Yeah."

"There was nothing you could do. As much as you don't like this St. James, he's right. You couldn't have done anything," he tries to reason.

The Latina furrows her brows. "Yes I could've, Noah. If I had just listened…" she hisses through clenched teeth. Her fists are wrapped around the armrests, knuckles whitening at the pressure as she thinks of what she could've done.

Puck reaches out and places his hand over one of hers, soothing it with his thumb pad as it rubs in circular motions. "Lopez…"

"No, Puck," she snaps as she whips her hand away from underneath the manly hand. "Just don't," Santana continues, raising her hand in a 'stop' motion.

Puck lowers his shoulder in defeat, dipping his head as he detects the sadness lurching behind the Latina's brown eyes.

She watches in her peripheral vision as he opens and closes his mouth several times, as if he's going to say something. But instead she places her headphones in and closes her eyes as she leans her head against the headrest.

They don't talk for the rest of the journey.

* * *

><p>It's 3 A.M. when they arrive in LA. The plane touches down at LAX and they're the first to get off. As the Latina's standing by the luggage carousel waiting for her bag, she hears Puck talk on the phone to someone a few feet away from her. She cranes her neck and listens to the conversation.<p>

"Yeah, well I'm taking Lopez to Fabray's client's residence soon."

"She's the best in the business. Fabray wanted her and Schuester did, too."

The Latina raises an eyebrow, _how do these people know about me?_

"Trust me, Abrams, she's good. I know you're all sweet on Fabray's client, but Lopez is the best of the best. She passed the SS exam in three weeks. It took me three freakin' years."

Santana smiles, feeling slightly smug at the new information. She hadn't realized that taking the SS test usually took around three years, and she'd done the physical training with an injured hand, as well as the theory exam in three weeks flat.

"Yeah man. Well we're just grabbing our bags now. Hummel's picking us up out front."

The brunette spots her bag and leans over a child to grab it. She sees a tag with 'Puck' on it and grabs the identical duffel bag, swinging it over her other shoulder as she approaches the Secret Service agent.

Puck had changed into a tight black t-shirt and a pair of formal, black pants. She hadn't questioned his attire up until now, but he stood there with his hand dug deep into his pocket and his muscles rippling across his arms.

Dark green eyes flicker towards Santana, and Puck immediately spins around, his back facing towards her as she approaches. The Latina raises an eyebrow, but continues forward and hears the end of his sentence.

"…Yeah, she's coming. Talk later. Bye."

As she reaches him, he snaps his phone shuts and flashes a smile.

"You got my bag?" he comments, nudging his head towards the black duffel bag.

Santana nods, still curious about his phone call. "Yeah. Who was that?"

The agent takes his bag and swings it over his shoulder, before walking towards the main entrance of the airport with Santana in tail. "Oh, no one."

"Didn't sound like no one," she presses, stepping quicker as two of her steps equal one of his.

They exit the airport and Puck cranes his neck, stepping to his tiptoes as he searches for something. Santana assumes it's their car.

"No need to worry babe. SS stuff," he answers, still searching the crowded road outside the airport.

"I _am_ SS stuff," Santana retorts, running her thumb underneath the handle of the duffel bag strap over her shoulder.

He chuckles. "_Other_ SS stuff."

The Latina narrows her eyes. She knows something's up, the itch at the back of her neck is telling her, but she shakes it off.

_Probably interview nerves, or just being on edge._

She shrugs it off and follows as Puck turns on his heels and walks towards a black Sedan. He knocks on the black, tinted window and it winds down. He bends over slightly and mumbles something to the driver before opening the back door and climbing in. The driver climbs out, his pale face pasted with a large, white grin and Santana nods at him.

"Morning, Miss Lopez. I'm Kurt Hummel, Miss Fabray's personal driver," he says as he corners the Sedan, and reaches out a hand.

"Call me Santana," she replies.

He reaches out for her bag. "Would you like me to put your bag in the trunk, Miss?"

The Latina twists her wrist round, before shrugging it off its shoulder and handing it towards the driver. "Uh, yeah, please."

Santana isn't used to being waited on. In the Army, if you didn't do something yourself, it would never be done. She'd never even had the advantage of being a lady, because according to most of her unit, she was an honorary man; since apparently being gay and being ahead in ranks over your colleagues was considered macho.

Kurt takes her bag and brushes past her towards the trunk, where he pops it open. She heads towards the open door and slides in, where she finds Puck tapping away on his iPhone.

"Everything alright?" he asks, not even looking up from his phone.

"Yep. Fine," she responds bluntly, feeling slightly uneasy about the whole being served thing.

Throughout her life she'd always done everything herself. When she was with them, her mom was a lawyer and spent ninety percent of her time at work or locked up in the office. Her dad was a doctor, and therefore spent well over 80 hours at the hospital every week.

So when her mom left and her dad turned to alcohol, she not only had to look after herself, but look after her father. So she wasn't exactly used to being on the receiving end of being cared for.

"Okay..." Puck says slowly, disbelief lacing his tone.

Kurt slides back into the car and switches on the engine. Santana turns her head to look out the window, and leans her chin in her fist against the door arm rest.

"You sure everything's alright?" Puck asks again, one eyebrow raised.

The Latina exhales heavily. "Just fine."

And once again, they don't talk for the rest of the ride.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, the car pulls up outside a large, silver gate with a small booth and a security guard inside. Kurt rolls down the window as the guard approaches, dressed in a navy suit, black tie, and matching navy 8 point cap.<p>

"Miss Fabray is expecting Mr. Puckerman and Miss Lopez," Kurt says to the guard, throwing his head back in the Latina's direction.

Santana examines the gate. The bottom is about a foot or so off the ground, the gap large enough for a human to fit under and none of the spikes are pointed. There's a small camera on top of the brick wall, which is only about four feet high, and she's pretty sure it's out of use as there's a piece of ivy weaving in through the back of it.

"Of course, Mr. Hummel," the guard replies, walking back towards the booth and entering it.

The Latina can't help but laugh internally at the lack of security. The guard had no clipboard, no questions, for all he knew Kurt could've been hijacked by two murderers and forced into driving them to this residence. The goddamn guard didn't even look in the back to examine that there was in fact her and Puck in the back.

_No wonder this chick's freaking out_, she thought to herself as the gates swung open. Kurt drives through and up through the winding roads. The residence is _huge_. Like ridiculously big. The whole drive is surrounded by a forest with thick branches and exotic plants placed all over. It'd obviously been designed with aesthetics in mind and not protection as the brick wall only extended half-way around the residence.

It takes about three minutes to approach the house, and when they get there, Santana's mouth drops. The mansion's driveway leads up to a roundabout, which has a dolphin shaped fountain stuck in the middle. The structure behind it is probably one of the biggest houses Santana's ever seen in her life. She leans forward in her seat, pressing her forearms to the back of the driver's seat and takes in the surroundings.

The mansion looks like a palace with the large, white walls scaling up high. Huge glass panes print around the front, so the inside of the house is visible, and there are two giant Greek columns holding up the roof, where two large wooden doors are standing up a marble set of steps.

Puck turns in his seat as the car idles. "Ready?"

"As ever," Santana replies.

The Latina can feel her nerves vibrating. She's curious because she hasn't felt nervous in well over ten years. To Santana, there's no such thing as nerves. But there's something itching at the back of her neck, the same itch she got in the airport, but she shrugs it off as she reaches for the handle.

Puck grabs Santana's bag out the back and Kurt pulls away from the curb, heading around another corner to where the Latina assumes a parking area is. She examines the property, taking note of the lack of security, or anything for that matter, around the courtyard, apart from a few small cameras (pointed in the wrong direction) and some security floor lights that continuously stay on, instead of flashing on for intruders.

"Ah, Santana," a soft voice calls as she's standing at the bottom of the steps, studying her surroundings. "You're here."

Santana immediately recognizes the voice and smiles. "Quinn, long time no see."

She hears the chuckle she grew accustomed to all those years ago. It was hard to believe that she'd never had a crush on the blonde; Quinn was one hell of a looker, even in her early teens. She looks up the stairs to see the blonde standing at the top of them, her hazel eyes wide and bright, and her hair cut so it's level with her jaw, instead of her high school below the shoulder length.

She's wearing a tight, grey pencil skirt that ends just above the knee and a black open collared blouse. She worries slightly as _no one_ should look this put together at half past three in the morning, but shrugs it off as once again, it's Quinn Fabray.

"Looking good, Fabray," the Latina says as she ascends the stairs.

The blonde cocks her head to the side and flashes a grin as Santana reaches her, before wrapping the brunette in a tight hug.

"Not so bad yourself, Lopez. Army hasn't done that much damage I see," Quinn comments as she pulls away from the Latina and gestures to her body.

Santana holds up her bandaged hand. "Really?"

"Apart from that then," Quinn corrects herself, and she turns to Puck who's talking to a bulky man at the bottom of the stairs. The blonde furrows her brow and inhales sharply, which doesn't go unnoticed by the Latina.

"What?" she questions, looking over her shoulder as the bulky man glances up towards the two women.

Quinn shakes her head. "Nothing. Just Karofsky. He's an ass, that's all."

Santana narrows her eyes at the bulky man. He mimics her movement and pushes his chest out in response. She watches as he stares intently at her, not as if he's looking at his new colleague, but as if he's weighing out an opponent.

"Come on, let's go to the pool house," Quinn suggests.

"Sure."

Santana stands there for a minute, studying the large man as he looks her up and down. It's almost creepy how the man is staring at her. It's not provocative or sexual; it's clearly defensive, as if she's invading his territory or something. She follows the blonde as she leads Santana through a small garden, lit up by tiny garden lights situated in random places. The area is colorful and bright, hundreds of different types of flowers ranging from African Tulips to Gardenias, then foliage like Papyrus stem and large Emerald leaves.

A minute or so later, they arrive at what looks like a small bungalow, situated beside a large, turquoise pool and a small Jacuzzi. Her mouth drops into an 'o' shape and she stands idly by the side, taking in the morning air and watching as the moonlight reflects on the calm water. There's about eight or so underwater lights, showing the small mosaic of a duck lying at the bottom of the pool, and Santana giggles.

"Pretty impressive right?" Quinn says, suddenly by the Latina's side.

Santana nods. "Pretty different from the deserts of Afghanistan," she jokes.

"Ha, yeah."

They stand in silence for a few seconds, just watching the water before Quinn clears her throat. "C'mon Lopez, I haven't been to bed yet and I'm up at 7."

The Latina furrows her brows curiously. "So what am I gonna do for the next few hours?"

"There's a variety of entertainment in the pool house, hence why I'm taking you there. You can either sleep, play a bit of Xbox, or watch some TV. There's a small sauna in the back as well as a punching bag, treadmill, and weights in the room beside it if you want to do that instead. Your choice," Quinn responds lightly, smiling as she finishes the sentence.

"Wait, there's a gym _in_ the house?"

The blonde nods slowly, as if Santana was stupid. "Uh, yeah…"

"Of course, why wouldn't there be?" the Latina replies sarcastically. Quinn slaps her arm playfully before continuing to walk towards the house.

The blonde places the key in the lock and the door swings open. She stands aside and Santana enters, immediately being greeted with the foreign smell of a new place.

"So, uh, this is where I'm staying tonight?" she asks, looking around the huge room.

Quinn nods. "And if you get the job this will be your house."

"Woah…" Santana says slowly, her mouth hanging open as she walks around the room, poking her head down the corridors to see the abnormally large kitchen and long hallway, with several doors leading off it.

"If you need anything, just press 3 on the phone and you'll be put through to me. But you know I'm tired so don't," Quinn jokes.

The Latina throws her bag onto the sofa and settles beside it, leaving her hands in her lap as she's still in awe of the living room.

"Right, well I'll just leave you to gape at it then and I'll see you in the morning."

The blonde turns and walks out the room, closing the door on her way out. Santana gulps and realizes Quinn has departed as she feels a sudden chill creep down her spine.

She shuffles in place, feeling the warmth of the sofa beneath her and the soft cushion press all around her body. She settles down, bringing her legs up onto the coffee table and rests her head against the back of the sofa, sighing heavily as she crosses her arms. She knows she should go and inspect the house, but the groggy feeling is tugging at her eyelids and she finally gives in.

It only takes a few seconds before she falls asleep.

* * *

><p>It's 6 A.M. when Santana wakes up. She yawns and stretches her arms way above her. The sunlight is creeping in through the blinds, and suddenly she wishes she'd closed them. Reluctantly, she pushes herself up off the sofa, cricking her neck as it'd been stiff from her sleeping position, and picks up her bag. She'd been so tired last night she hadn't even bothered looked around the rest of the pool house, which to her just looks like a house.<p>

She rubs her neck with her right arm, and heads through the corridor, peeking in each room as she walks past them. One room is filled with gym equipment: weights, a treadmill, a large ballet bar with a mirrored wall in front of it, and various other items. The next room has a small, single bed in it, and the one beside that is a bathroom with a stupidly large walk-in shower.

She decides she wants a shower, but being Santana - and that means curious and nosey - she continues down the hall until she reaches the end door. With a click of the handle she lets herself in, into what she can only assume is that master bedroom of the pool house.

"Woah," she says breathlessly, gripping her bag tighter and causing a sharp ache to spiral throughout her hand.

To say the room is beautiful would be an understatement. The large, queen size bed is covered in a luscious cream comforter, the pillows are huge and look unbelievably comfortable, and there's white silky blankets folded neatly at the bottom. It literally looks like a princess should live there. The walls are plastered in a pale, floral wallpaper, and there two large windows covering the east and west side of the bedroom. The bed is directly in the center, and just beside it, there's a glass sliding door leading out to the pool and a covered Jacuzzi.

Santana walks in, pushing the door open fully until it comes in contact with something behind it. She jumps slightly and she drops her bag, trying to catch the falling object before it hits the floor.

"Shit," she mumbles, eyeing the shattered porcelain duck lying in various pieces on the floor.

Santana bends down, so and starts to pick up the pieces. _Great, first day here and I've already broken something_, she thinks to herself. Each piece lands with a cushioned thud as she drops them into her hand.

"Don't worry about that too much, there's like thousands more of them," a voice calls, startling Santana.

She jumps up, hitting her head on the doorknob and stands up straight, wincing and rubbing the top of her head. She could pick that voice out from anywhere. That soft, silky, soothing tone that causes shivers to tingle deep into her very soul. Her lungs almost forget how to function as her eyes trail up the woman's body, the creamy legs that stretch on for days, and they finally connect with a _very_ short pair of yellow exercise shorts. Brown orbs scale further up the body to a slither of a taut, tanned stomach visible beneath a black sports bra.

She meets familiar glowing pale skin covering the blondes perfect collarbone, her shoulders pronounced and oh so touchable, and then finally finishes at the sparkling pair of gleaming, cerulean orbs that just gleam at her. Santana gulps and drops both hands to her sides, standing rigid, just like her army training had taught her too. She swallows audibly, her heart twisting and turning painfully as she clenches her jaw.

The blondes face falls, her mouth falling agape as her perfect set of pink lips slightly curl up at the side and her brows furrowing,

"Santana?" the blonde says, her voice almost a whisper.

The Latina straightens her neck and inhales deeply, feeling a dull ache bubble in the deepest, darkest crevices of her heart. She runs her tongue along her teeth and purses her lips, feeling her heart drop into her stomach and her vision blur.

"Brittany."


	4. chapter three

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Three]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>7500

* * *

><p>Santana Lopez has never been one for emotions, just like she'd never been one for keeping relationships constant. She'd become accustomed to being alone, just like she'd become accustomed to feeling nothing for anyone.<p>

The day her father died, she hadn't shed a single tear. The day her mother left, she hadn't even frowned. The only time she'd actually cried in the last four years was at the death of one of her colleagues, Matt Rutherford. And that was purely because she didn't want her peers to think she was as heartless as she really was.

She'd never let someone in completely, she'd always restricted who came into her life. Purely because when they were in, it was their free choice on when, not if, but when they'd just walk straight back out again. Her parents were spectacular examples of how quickly people could disappear. So that could be one explanation for why she's as cold hearted and empty as she is. But if you believed that it was all her parents doing well, frankly, you'd be wrong.

Like it's already been stated, Santana Lopez had never been one for emotions. Well, not for the past four years to be precise. You see, at the age of fifteen, her father had died and she'd moved to Buckland to live with her Aunt, and from there she'd joined the Military Cadets and headed to Columbus University, where she'd remained until the age of twenty.

However, what happened in the space of those five years was enough to bring down even the toughest of people. But Santana had survived. She'd lived through the heartache and intense pain that just wouldn't disappear, no matter how much she'd tried. Ever since her father had turned to alcohol, the Latina had pushed herself away from everyone. Sure, she stayed friends with Puck and Quinn, but they weren't best friends like they'd been before. Over the years, she slowly became her own person. It all happened too early; her growing up.

At the age of ten, she was hauling her dad through the front porch, while he sobbed himself into oblivion and drank away the entire liquor cabinet.

By the age of twelve, she would cower in the corner after her dad had smacked her for the first time, cracking a tooth and dislocating her jaw.

At fourteen, she'd slept with Puck's best friend Sam, as well as half the football team.

And at fifteen, she started taking the pain away by downing two Melatonin and a glass of scotch, after discovering her father pale and passed out in the front garden, ultimately leading to him dying a few hours later.

Her Aunt was the one who'd put a stop to her erratic behavior. She'd been out of control as a teenager, but there'd always been one person there, trying to pry her way into the Latina's heart. One person that would let Santana sneak in through her window, climb into her bed, and cry the night away after escaping her father's violent torment.

And that person had been Brittany. It was a strange kind of friendship. One that'd struck up from a few explicit words and a blue slushie.

* * *

><p><em>"Fuck off ,Taylor! I swear to fucking God next time I see you I'll kick you so hard in the fucking balls you'll be choking on them!" the eleven year old Santana yelled, thrusting her fist in the air as the chubby boy ran away, chuckling evilly.<em>

_She looked down to her once-white t-shirt, now covered in thick blue slushie stains. She clenched her jaw, wondering what the hell she ever did to deserve all of this._

_"Fucking douchebag," she whispered to herself as she grabbed two paper towels and started scrubbing at the already-drying liquid._

_"You shouldn't swear. It's rude," a soft voice called from the locker next to her._

_She spun on her heels to see a gorgeous, blue eyed blonde staring at her with a disapproving expression._

_"Do I look like I give a flying fuck if it's rude?" Santana hissed, gesturing to her stained tee._

_The blonde furrowed her brows and reached inside her own locker, grabbing a bottle of OxiClean and a few more paper towels. She turned to the Latina, who was looking at her in disbelief (since, you know, everyone carried around a bottle of OxiClean in their backpack), and soaked a few towels in the cleaning liquid before grasping a handful of the brunette's top, pulling their bodies together closely._

_Santana watched the blonde dip her head, and stick her tongue out the side of her mouth in concentration. It was so adorable, it almost made the Latina cringe with the tingling feeling she was getting in her stomach._

_She scrunched her nose, inhaling sharply as the back of the blondes knuckles brushed against a slither of her taut stomach, causing an insatiable feeling to crawl over her body. The blonde finally finished, revealing a bright, white stain-free tee. Santana dropped her mouth in awe, and grasped the t-shirt, unknowingly placing her own hand over the blonde's._

_"Holy shit."_

_The blonde frowned._

_"Sorry, I mean, holy bejeezers?" Santana corrected, wondering to herself how the girl was having this effect on her. She never apologized to anyone; not Puck, not Quinn, not even her teachers who were just trying to help her, let alone some random girl she'd just met._

_The blonde grinned a brilliantly white smile, revealing a set of perfectly straight teeth. "Awesome." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Brittany."_

_Santana found herself smiling back. "Santana."_

_"Pretty name for a pretty face."_

_The Latina blushed and looked away, thinking _what the fuck?

_"We're friends now, okay?" Brittany said firmly, sliding her hand out and offering her pinky._

_Santana narrowed her eyes, looking at the offering before meeting a sparkling pair of innocent, azure orbs. Without a second more hesitation, she linked her own with the pale pinky and grinned._

_"Okay."_

_Brittany grinned from ear to ear and bounced in her spot. "Awesome."_

* * *

><p>From then on, they'd been inseparable. They'd spent every day together. The Latina even persuaded her principal to switch classes so they'd be together for every single one. After school, the blonde usually had cheerleading practice, leaving Santana to her own accord. Santana returned home and then Brittany would sneak into her room a few hours later, climbing over the garage roof and into her best friend's bedroom where she'd slip into bed.<p>

They'd snuggle at night and talk until early hours in the morning. Santana always got butterflies and couldn't help but smile whenever she was around Brittany. She'd spend her nights watching the blonde sleep, brushing a blonde lock of hair behind her ear to see the bright blue eyes flicker behind pale eyelids.

She couldn't explain what she felt for Brittany. It wasn't like any other feeling she ever had, but she never acted on the urges to press her plump lips to Brittany's perfect pink ones. However, deep inside, as much as she tried to fight it, she knew somewhere along the line, she'd fallen in love with her best friend.

But everything happened too soon for them. Santana thought she'd had more time, but when her father died, her Aunt Clarissa traveled from Buckland and told her she'd be moving back. She couldn't take it, the thought of leaving her best friend, the only one she'd ever known and loved would be left behind. She didn't know what to do.

As soon as her Aunt had turned her back, Santana ran. She ran as fast as she could to Brittany's house, her legs burning and calves rejecting the sudden burst of adrenaline fuelled exercise.

* * *

><p><em>"Brittany! Brittany," Santana whispered loudly through her best friends locked window.<em>

_A few seconds later a disheveled, tired looking blonde appeared, grinning as soon as brown eyes met blue ones. She swiftly unlocked the door and the Latina slid in._

_"Geez San, you're freezing," Brittany commented as she rubbed her palms up and down Santana's bare arms._

_The Latina's heart flipped and turned, her stomach twisted and a grin took over her face. She stared deep into cerulean eyes, admiring the adoration shading them - so much so that she almost forgot the reason she was there._

_Her eyes welled up, chocolate orbs glazing in the moonlight that beamed through Brittany's window._

_"San? What's wrong?" the blonde asked urgently, her face contorting with concern._

_Santana swallowed hard. "M-my d-dad…" she said, dipping her head and wishing for the strength not to cry._

_Brittany stepped forward, closing the gap between them and tilting the brunettes chin up with her long, slender forefinger. "Honey, what's wrong?"_

_"H-He's d-dead Britt," she replied, allowing a single tear to trickle out of her right eye._

_The blonde caught it, wiping it away with her thumb pad as she cupped the Latina's cheeks. She stared deep into brown eyes and blinked slowly, breathing heavily and blanketing Santana's face with her hot, sweet breath._

_"Santana I'm so sorry. I-I don't know what… what to say," Brittany said, swallowing audibly._

_The Latina shook her head and just allowed the sobs to overwhelm her body until she was embraced in her best friend's long arms, whimpering into her yellow tank top._

_"Baby, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Brittany whispered into dark raven hair, pressing a single kiss to the locks._

_Santana heart jumped at the term of endearment. She could hear the blonde's heart beating fast as she pressed her ear to her best friend's chest. Brittany ran her hands through the Latina's hair reassuringly, whispering a 'sorry' every now and then and pressing soothing kisses to her hair._

_After a few minutes of a tight embrace, Santana looked up into glossy blue eyes, studying the concern and adoration that shaded behind them. She smiled sadly and rested her forehead against her best friend's, their noses brushing and breaths mixing._

_"San…" Brittany said breathlessly, licking her lips and wrapping her hands around the Latina's neck, securing their heads together._

_Santana rested her hands upon the blonde's hips, gripping tightly and applying pressure to her fingertips to acknowledge her best friend talking._

_"I'm moving away," the Latina said after a long, quiet moment._

_Brittany clenched her jaw, her skin hardening as it wrapped around her jawline. She squeezed her eyes shut, allowing the unshed tears to surface and create a salty track down her pale cheek. Santana watched as her best friend emotionally broke down._

_Every emotion they felt just poured out. All the tears, the silence… they didn't need anything else. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the hurt she was unintentionally causing on her best friend._

_"Where?"_

_The Latina opened her eyes, watching Brittany as her skin tightened around her eyelids, obviously wishing the information wasn't true. Santana brought her hand up and ran her thumb over the lines formed by her best friends crying, trying to sooth them out. Her heart twisted, clenching painfully as they disappeared and she wished, no, she hoped to God that maybe, somehow it could be just that easy for everything painful in their life to disappear._

_Santana inhaled deeply, pressing their chests together in a tighter embrace as she pressed her palm to the small of her best friends back. "Buckland."_

_Brittany drew a breath in sharply, allowing more tears to flood out. She opened her eyes, revealing her sad, sapphire orbs, and so much more. Despite no words being spoken, somehow, they both knew. In that moment, as their eyes locked and foreheads pressed together, the unspoken love was clear. They didn't need any words, they didn't need any cliché speeches or romantic poems. All they needed was that one look._

_"I'm gonna miss you," Santana said breathlessly, so quietly she was terrified that Brittany hadn't heard. She kicked herself mentally, wishing she'd said what she really wanted to say._

_Despite the darkness, Santana saw the corners of her best friends mouth curl up, her eyes instantly shining a little bit brighter. She knew Brittany knew the true words._

_"I'm gonna miss you too."_

_And that was where their first kiss took place. Santana asked silently for permission, and when Brittany nodded she hesitated no more. She closed the space between them, pressing their lips together in the sweetest, most romantic kiss she'd ever experienced. Despite being surprised at first, it wasn't a shock to see how well their lips melted together. They molded like they were meant to be doing it._

_Santana couldn't have comprehended how sweet and unique her best friend tasted. How their lips moved in perfect rhythm and how well their hands found the correct positions on each other's body, pulling them closer together, securing their bodies together._

_They pulled apart only for the need of oxygen, and their foreheads returned to their original place. The only sound in the room was the rapid beating of their hearts and heavy pants escaping their chests._

_"Stay with me," Brittany whispered as she licked her lips._

_Santana mimicked her movement, savoring the taste of her best friend on her lips for just that little bit longer._

_"I can't, B. I wish I could, but I can't," she replied reluctantly._

Why did this have to happen now_, she thought to herself as Brittany kissed her lips quickly yet reassuringly._

_"Stay with me," Brittany breathed. "Just for tonight."_

* * *

><p>Santana moved to Buckland the next day. Her Aunt had literally dragged her out of the Pierce house, kicking and screaming as she was shoved in the loaded car.<p>

The next few years went painfully slowly. Every day Santana wished she was old enough to just get out of Buckland, to drive back to the only person she'd ever cared for. Brittany didn't even have a cell phone, and she sure as hell didn't know how to work a computer. So their only method of contact was stupid letters. Stupid fucking letters that took fucking forever to arrive. Santana hated it; she hated how much Brittany and her were growing apart. Her Aunt Clarissa didn't want her to see the blonde, she didn't want her to keep in contact and tried as hard as she damn well could to make sure of it.

Once, the Latina was halfway through writing a letter to her best friend when her Aunt came into the room, grabbed the piece of paper and ripped it straight down the middle, before chucking it into the bin, and chuckling evilly as she left. Her Aunt didn't exactly approve of their friendship, since they were obviously more than best friends. Einstein wasn't needed to work that one out.

However being the little delinquent Santana was, she'd send secret letters, and managed to hide the received ones. They'd write about how much they missed each other, how the new kid Jacob Ben Israel had a Jewish cloud for hair, and how Santana joined the Military Cadets.

But somewhere along the line, the letters died down. The eight letters a month turned to one every three months, if Santana was lucky. Both girls grew into respectable young adults, and their lives just naturally took priority over the letters. They didn't even have time to write their cell phone numbers, since Brittany had acquired one on her seventeenth birthday, and Santana hated every second of it.

Three years later, Santana and Brittany both wound up going to Columbus University, completely unaware that they'd be going together. Santana arrived before Brittany, and was four weeks in when the blonde arrived. It only took two days from meeting again for the first time in three years, for them to become a couple.

* * *

><p><em>"Wow."<em>

_Santana couldn't help but stare as a breath-takingly beautiful blonde stepped out the cab, with legs that ran on for days. She was staring from across the road, standing idly on the sidewalk with people brushing her shoulder and bumping into her. But she couldn't really care. This blonde was too beautiful for words._

_As soon as she'd seen a flash of blonde hair, her neck had snapped around, eyes trained until her suspicions about whether it was Brittany or not were confirmed. For the past few years, it was like an instinct, an innate reaction to identify the face connected to a blonde head of hair – just to see if it was the blonde she was looking for. Up until then, she'd been wrong every time._

_It was Brittany. Without a single doubt, it was definitely Brittany._

_The blue eyed blonde stepped out the cab, a glow of innocence still surrounding her slightly aged frame. If it were possible, she was even more gorgeous than Santana remembered. Even from across the street Santana could spot the differences in her once best friend. _

_The glisten in her blue eyes that could only be put down to life experience, the enhancement in breast size, the taller and more toned edge towards her already perfect body, and not to mention her legs… Damn, they were longer than ever. Santana almost couldn't believe this beauty was the same girl from her childhood._

_Because frankly, Brittany looked like a freakin' supermodel._

_Blue eyes scanned the area with something Santana knew to be heightened determination. Deep inside, she wished Brittany was looking for her, but something inside her nagged that that possibility was implausible. Brittany didn't even know they were in the same state, let alone the same street._

_However, it didn't stop her from feeling self-conscious. She glanced down to her outfit. Great, sweat pants, a tank top and reading glasses. Not exactly the best first-impression outfit. (Well, kind of first-impression, if you count a few years to be a big enough time period to say it's first time. Because technically it is, first time in years. Stupid technicalities.) That choice of clothing probably shouldn't be the first thing she should approach Brittany in after all this time, but it was either that or risking the chance of losing the blonde just so she could change, was too high. _

_So she made the decision to approach her._

_With shaky hands, she ran them down the plane of her toned stomach, smoothing the creases as she checked the streets to cross. Clutching her notepad, and with a pen tucked behind her ear like a British builder or something, she headed for the blonde. Of course, it wasn't until she was half-way across the road that she remembered it was those sweatpants that were one size too big, so as her legs led her across the road, she had to grip the side of them and hoist them further up her body. _

_The only thing that she was slightly pleased with was the state of her hair. She remembered the time when Brittany said she loved Santana's hair down, loose and wavy without any hair products stiffening or altering it. At least there was one thing Brittany would like after all those years._

_She felt her palms start to sweat and heart pound as the smell that was so Brittany wafted underneath her nose. The blonde was about two feet in front of her when she stopped, and her head tilted to the side, watching the woman as she bent over at the hip, head through the cab window, paying the driver. It amused her to think that Brittany hadn't changed all that much, she was never very aware of personal space and apparently, still wasn't._

_"Keep the change," Brittany said lightly, straightening up slowly._

_Santana gulped as she drank in the entire sight of her once best friend, all grown up. She was definitely glad she came over. Leering from the other sidewalk definitely didn't do Brittany any justice. If she looked like a super-model from across the road, close-up she looked like Miss Queen of the World. _

_The next thing she heard, bags had dropped to the floor as Brittany stood there, mouth in an 'o' shape and eyes wide with surprise. Excitement surged through Santana, as well as satisfaction, as she watched the blonde gulp, blue eyes trailing up and down the length of her body. Apparently it didn't even matter if she was in sweatpants and a tank top, Brittany liked it. _

_"Brittany," Santana was the first to break the silence, too nervous and excited to hold it in any longer._

_A wide grin crept up and took over Brittany's face, her eyes glistening as a set of perfect, white teeth dragged in an equally perfect lip, "Santana."_

_Neither of them said anything more as they stood there, with people moving around them and the discarded bags, just drinking in the sight of each other after such a long time. Santana could feel her heart taking off like a helicopter, the blood rushing through her body like it was determined to get somewhere – even though it was a never-ending cycle. She hadn't ever felt that way about seeing anyone, and now Brittany was there, she never wanted to stop feeling the butterflies and mix of nerves and excitement pulsing through her veins. _

_"You're here," it came out breathless, and more like a statement than a question as Santana finally tore away her gaze to stare into crystal blue eyes. __Damn,__ she'd missed those. "You're actually here."_

_Slowly, Brittany nodded, the grin only widening as she stepped forward, completely disregarding her suitcases and approached Santana until their bodies were humming with excitement, only inches away. Santana couldn't actually believe it was happening. She was pretty sure she'd wake up, in bed, alone, grumbling into the dark night and wondering if she'd ever see the one person that she'd ever felt anything for, again._

_Slight hesitation hung in the air as they just gazed into each other's eyes, reading the words their mouths couldn't say. Brittany was really there, **her** Brittany, was standing in front of her with more beauty than is humanely possible, and the biggest smile that made Santana think her feelings were returned._

_"I'm here," Brittany said, lowly, her voice sounding like she'd just gone for a ten mile jog. "I've missed you."_

_There was no need for words anymore, Santana knew what she wanted and she sure as hell could read what Brittany wanted. She breathed in the charge in the air, telling her that Brittany was with her again. After all those years, after all those time she was a whimpering mess, wishing her blonde best friend was beside her, she was really there._

_It was so damn surreal._

_So many things had changed between them; damn, nearly everything had changed from their physical appearance to their emotional attachments, except one thing - one thing that was bringing their bodies closer together, tangling their fingers and filling their chests with complete elation. Something that Santana had only read about, something poets and novelists deemed to be a heart-felt warmth and eternal connection that couldn't be completely broken, once made. Something Santana knew to be called love. _

_With barely any distance between them, Santana tugged on Brittany's hand and brought their lips together. They needed it; it was hanging in the air from the first moment they laid eyes on each other and had been growing from the first time their lips had touched. _

_There were so many outstanding things to talk about, so many things they had to discuss about the present, the past and the future – but that wasn't the time. It was **definitely **not the time. Soft, warm lips that knew hers way to well for the amount of time they'd actually been pressed together, were against hers, sliding and moving in such practiced rhythm that Santana thought her heart was about to jump out her chest. _

_To say Brittany's mouth felt incredibly would definitely be an understatement. _

_Everything about the way the blonde dragged her lips back and forth across her own was just mesmerizing, and she definitely would've been happy to stand there, her hands trailing a slow path down the back of Brittany's ass to her jean shorts, where they rested inside the pockets and just kiss the crap out of the blonde. _

_She would've been happy to just indulge in the way Brittany's nose nudged against her cheek, urging to deep the kiss as their mouths opened and tongues massaged against one another and the way pale fingers were tangled through her hair, securing their faces as the regard for keeping it PG was definitely slipping out their minds. Well, that was until she felt her bottom lip being sucked and suddenly, it wasn't about urges and needs – it was about lingering touches and sensual kisses. It was about feelings._

_Santana whimpered as Brittany dragged her teeth across her bottom lip and pulled before pressing a soft, kiss to it. They broke apart, Santana's hands still inside the back pockets of Brittany's shorts, their hips still pressed against each other and foreheads warm where they rested together. Slowly, blue eyes opened and pulled back at the sound of a hum of satisfaction coming from Santana. _

_"Hey," Santana finally managed to force out._

_Brittany chuckled lightly, her fingers pulling against the fine hairs at the nape of Santana's neck, "I thought we already said that."_

_Santana shook her head, nose nudging against Brittany's as she giggled quietly, "If that's how you greet people, I think I should walk away and come back again, at least ten or so times."_

_"Or we could find out what goodbye means."_

_Santana gulped audibly. She'd never seen that side of Brittany before with the smirk and suggestive tone. And for a few seconds, she was angry at herself that she missed that. "Hmm, I guess I could roll with that."_

_A smile wider than the Grand Canyon spread across Brittany's face, but there was a devilish glint in her eye that made Santana's stomach flip with anticipation. It only took them all of about thirty before Santana had the blonde pushed up against the elevator wall, ravishing her neck with soft nips and open mouthed kissed. A ding told them they were at their floor, and despite Brittany's whimper due to loss of contact, Santana dragged them out and towards her dorm – which conveniently was the first door. She did wonder if fate had intercepted, and Brittany turned up unknowingly outside her dorm, but then she thought it was stupid. It must have just been coincidental. _

_Everything slowed down as Santana grabbed both of Brittany's hands, slowly leading her through the threshold of her door and down to her bed. She sat first, ushering the blonde to straddle her lap as their lips met once more. Everything was careful, and so precise that it made Santana feel like she was a virgin once more – that every graze sent a jolt of electricity spiralling throughout her body._

_From then on the touches were natural, despite it being the first time they were sleeping with each other. Santana's hands seemed to know every dip and contour of Brittany's body, her fingers tracing the outline of every flawless muscle on the blonde's well-toned stomach. Pouty lips placed gentle kisses down the length of the blondes body as she flipped her, her hands sensually gliding every piece of clothing as her eyes met with Brittany's – their ragged breaths echoing inside the small space of her bedroom. _

_Silently, she marvelled over every change in Brittany's body, and every perfect piece that still remained. Like the small freckles by her navel, the silky, creamy skin covering every inch of her wonderful being and the small line in the dip of her abs. Damn, it was like seeing everything she'd seen before but in the light. Santana knew all those years she'd been missing something, and now she'd found it._

_With a lingering, stolen kiss from Brittany, Santana dips and tastes Brittany, groaning at the flavour she thought she'd never be able to sample. One of her hands slides up the bed, fingers lacing through fingers as she continues her ministrations, trying not to become distracted by the continuous heavenly moans that made her smile into hot flesh. _

_It only took around five minutes before the pale body beneath her touch was shivering, shaking and shattering like an earthquake, exploding and arching of the bed as her flavour poured into Santana's mouth. She couldn't contain herself as she lapped up the remains, marvelling in every last drop that she could whilst her eyes were trained on the way Brittany's face scrunched up, her lips opening into a simple 'o' shape and eyes glossed over like fireworks were going off in front of her face._

_Santana was pretty sure she'd never seen something so beautiful._

_Sliding up Brittany's body, kisses being pressed along the way, she wondered why God had chosen **her**, chosen **her** to be the one to be the one who this blonde haired, blue eyed angel wanted. Why she was the lucky one who held the heart of gold. She thought she may have been getting ahead of herself, but the butterflies and insistent tingling inside her stomach told her that whatever had happened between them, surely would change the course of her life._

_"You're so beautiful," Santana whispered, running her tongue along the expanse of Brittany's pale neck, moving her chest in time to the blonde's pants whilst her hands trailed an invisible line up and down pale ribs. "And not that you would've known, but I kinda missed you too."_

_A light hearted chuckle comes from the body beneath her, and Santana places gentle pecks onto Brittany's jaw until she trails around to her lips. _

_Inches away, Brittany spoke. "Not at all," she grinned, "But now it's time for me to show you how beautiful you are."_

_Santana cocked her head to the side, brows furrowing as she deciphered the blondes words. It was only when an unknown strength pushed against her shoulder, long, silky legs straddling her hips, and her tongue leisurely exploring the contours of Brittany's mouth – she realised what was meant._

_And surely enough, Brittany delivered on that promise. They continued making love that night, wrapped up in each other, limbs entangled and hearts intertwining irreversibly so._

* * *

><p>Every waking moment was spent together, and come to think of it, every sleeping moment was spent together as well. They were just as inseparable as before, and both of them were on cloud nine.<p>

Santana never thought she could be happier than when she was with Brittany. Sure, they argued and had their minor disagreements just like any other couple, but there was an undying devotion shading behind both their eyes and smiles, which set them apart from any other couple. Plus, the make-up sex was awesome.

Brittany, being the bright, outgoing person she was, managed to drag Santana out of her room and made her mingle with several other couples. The Latina hated the whole 'coupley' thing, and wondered why they couldn't just hang out with normal, single people. Apparently something about a third wheel would make it awkward, and since Brittany sealed it with a kiss, Santana couldn't argue.

Their six month anniversary came quickly. Santana took the blonde out to dinner, out to the local theater for a movie, and then to a hotel, where they spent the night taking advantage of the 24 hour bar and Jacuzzi overlooking the sparkling city lights.

On their first year anniversary, the Latina managed to cram in all of her work and take a few days off from her job at the local restaurant, Breadstix, where she was a waitress, to whisk Brittany off to New York for the weekend. They were so happy. The trip entailed a visit to Broadway, where they saw Lion King because it was one of Brittany's favorites, a night on the town, and then a private hot air balloon ride over the Big Apple.

Santana remembered it well, mostly because it was the first time she'd ever made any real commitment to anyone. She'd recently bought a promise ring, because despite thinking marriage and all that crap was unnecessary because she didn't need a few bits of paper to know that she and Brittany were going to stay together forever, Brittany liked the idea. So she compromised by getting a promise ring.

Brittany was ecstatic when the Latina gave her the ring, and a cliché speech about how much she needed and loved Brittany, how she would always be there for Brittany and how she'd never fall in love with anyone else.

However, six months before Santana was due to graduate, Brittany left.

* * *

><p><em>"Please… You don't have to do this. You don't have to go," Santana pleaded, her hand clasping Brittany's tightly as she knelt on the floor of the blonde's dorm.<em>

_The Latina had turned up at her girlfriend's apartment armed with a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of flowers, ready to celebrate their year and a half anniversary. However when she entered, the blonde was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped and suitcase by her feet. Brittany had just told Santana that her parents got her a job in LA as a back-up dancer._

_"San… Please," Brittany sobbed, tears creating a salty track down her pale cheek._

_The Latina whimpered as her girlfriend retracted her hand, and she fell to the floor, her palms pressing into the carpet as she struggled to keep herself up._

_"I don't have a choice."_

_"You do. You can stay with me. Your parents can't make you do anything you don't want too. You're an adult," Santana replied, her voice raspy and lacing with sadness._

_Brittany swallowed audibly, placing her suitcase on the floor as she knelt to the Latina's level, taking her hand between her own._

_"I can't San. They're only looking out for me. And I want this opportunity."_

_The Latina looked up through watery eyes, the figure of the blonde blurring in front of her. Brittany's usually bright eyes were dark and cold._

_"And I'm not looking out for you?"_

_A silence greeted their conversation as their eyes locked. Brittany dipped her head as she rubbed her thumb in circular motions over the back of Santana's hands._

_"I'll come with you."_

_Brittany shook her head. "No San, you have a life here. You've only got six months until your final exam."_

_"So wait for me!" Santana pleaded, desperation lacing her tone. "We can move away together. I'll come with you wherever you want to go. I don't want to leave you, I won't."_

_"You already left me," Brittany stated breathlessly and firmly. The Latina could hear the aggression behind the statement._

_Santana's face contorted incredulously, her eyebrows furrowed as she squinted her eyes. She couldn't believe what she had just heard. The Latina straightened up, ripping her hand away from the blonde's as she staggered to her feet, her body weak and rejecting the sudden movement._

_"So, what? This is some type of revenge? You know I didn't have a fucking choice. My dad fucking died, and my mom ran off. I had no one else. I had to move to Buckland," The Latina hissed in response, venom dripping off of every word._

_Brittany looked up with saddened eyes from her kneeling position on the floor. Santana watched as the blonde opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to find the right words to say. Santana wanted to yell, to scream and shout and make Brittany stay, but her heart just couldn't take it._

_She turned her back to the blonde, not wanting to see Brittany's expression anymore. It hurt too much. It just hurt too goddamn much._

_"I have to go," Brittany said after a long, quiet moment, her voice cold and hard._

_The Latina turned and raised both eyebrows as another flood of tears escaped her eyes. She stood there, watching as Brittany rose and picked up her suitcase, after placing something on top of the cabinet nearest to the door._

_Their eyes met one last time, and Santana couldn't restrain herself as she lunged towards the blonde, cupping her cheeks and kissing her with everything she had, one last time. It was hard, sloppy, passionate. Her lips hurt from the force of crushing their lips together, but she needed to try. She needed to try with one last kiss. But it didn't work._

_Brittany pulled away first and didn't even bother looking at the Latina as she exited, shutting the door behind her and leaving Santana in an empty dorm, distraught and broken. Chocolate orbs flickered over to the cabinet, and she reluctantly rose and staggered over there._

_When she arrived she slumped back to the floor, curling into the foetal position as she sobbed and whimpered, not being able to contain the excruciating pain emanating from her body._

_For what lay on top of the cabinet was a sparkling, silver band. The promise ring._

* * *

><p>It was pretty much a miracle that the Latina managed to graduate, considering the downfall in her work, as well as every other aspect in her life.<p>

The first couple of months were the worst. She'd sit sobbing on her bed, clutching the stupid toy duck Brittany had given her after a carnival, and listening to Taylor Swift's Last Kiss over and over again. The lyrics just fit that goddamn well.

Every night she would fall asleep, crying freely as she grasped onto the only goddamn things her girlfriend left, a stupid silver neck chain and the stupid fucking promise ring. Just another crack in her already-broken heart.

Santana spent the majority of her time locked up in her dorm, wishing the blonde would come back and checking her phone for the twelfth millionth time just to see if Brittany had called, or even left a message. But she hadn't. She even debated having her tear ducts surgically removed, since there couldn't possibly be any more tears to shed.

The very few friends Brittany and Santana made as a couple became strangers. Santana avoided them at all costs, knowing they were just another spark of agony in her painful journey, and that was something she knew she couldn't handle. She barely slept, or ate for that matter. But she got a few calls and texts from Quinn, wondering how she was, and how she was coping. Apparently news spread fast.

However painful they were, the days managed to go by. Santana somehow found a way to fall asleep at night, and get through the several day lit hours she had to spend at lectures and at the library.

Just like she'd done with the cadets, she stuck her nose into her job, working hard and making sure to excel her peers in terms of ranks, and not making attachments. She was pretty sure her colleagues called her a cold-hearted bitch behind her back, especially when she didn't shed a tear at one of the unit member's deaths, but she didn't care.

She _was_ cold-hearted. Everything good in her vanished when Brittany left. She'd promised herself no more tears. She'd promised never to open up. And most of all, she promised never to fall in love with anyone again.

But Santana did graduate, and she received her bachelor's degree. She left Georgia and moved back to Buckland, where she buried herself deep into the Military Cadets in a desperate attempt to block everything else out.

Every day was still a struggle. But being the stubborn ass Santana was, she somehow willed her way through each fucking day.

It only took two months before she was given the chance to go to Afghanistan. Without a care, and without Brittany, she had no reason not to. There was nothing keeping her in the States. So off she went, with a duffle bag and a bachelor's degree in her back pocket. After all, that's all she had.

The months turned into years, and Santana never went a day without thinking about Brittany and if she missed Santana just as much as Santana missed her. But somewhere along the line it became easier. She still believed that the saying 'time heals everything' was complete bullshit, but she could see hidden meaning behind the words.

Time doesn't heal everything, it just makes it a hell of a lot easier to deal with. And that's just what happened.

Santana no longer felt the glass shard in her chest twist as much whenever she thought of Brittany. She no longer looked at the broken, desperate girl in the mirror whose eyes were dark and empty and face sunken thin, wishing the leggy blonde would come back into her life and bring that spark back into her dark eyes.

Eventually she forgot how broken and desperate she was. She forgot how to feel for anyone. And as much as Santana knew it wasn't good for her, she was content with it.


	5. chapter four

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Four]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>8800

* * *

><p>Santana steps out into the night sky, wrapping her arms around her body as her coat lay inside. Her brain battles with itself, yelling and punching internally as she furrows her brow. She squints, noticing a small hole in the fence nearest the pool house and shakes her head.<p>

_They're security really is shit. No wonder Br-… Quinn hired me._

She sighs heavily, the name racing through her mind along with a few images and she tilts her head back, reveling as the silent breeze cools her face. Her eyes drift upwards, blinking against the light rain as that is falling from above.

It's dark. But each individual star sparkles in its own special way as it dully illuminates the dark purple canvas of the night sky. She'd never meant to see Brittany again. She thought since time heals all wounds, or so people say, everything would eventually fade, no matter the intensity of the pain.

She hears the door shut behind her and turns to see Quinn walking towards her with an apologetic expression. She offers a sad smile and then turns back to the pool, watching the water ripple as each raindrop hits the surface.

"San?"

Her fists immediately clench. Santana knows Quinn would never _deliberately _hurt her, but she was sure as hell doing a great job.

"What?" she breathes, her voice sharp as she bends down, and lightly dips her fingertips into the lukewarm pool.

The smaller blonde sidles up, crouching beside her and places her hand gently on the Latina's shoulder.

After a long moment of them just watching the ripples form around Santana's fingertips, Quinn speaks.

"I'm sorry."

Santana's jaw clenches. "What are you apologizing for?"

She hears Quinn sigh. "For not telling you about Britt, and for making Puck not tell you either."

She wants to yell. She wants to scream at Quinn for putting her in this position. She hates it, she really does. But she knows that her old best friend wouldn't have done it for a good reason. So instead, she shakes her head slowly and turns to the blonde.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't come," Quinn answers, voice laced with honesty.

Santana furrows her brows. "You don't know that."

The blonde snorts, the result of a restrained chuckle. "I do. If I'd told you you'd be working for a girl that broke your heart - no scratch that - working for Brittany, you wouldn't have come."

"So why'd you lie?"

Quinn exhales and smooth's down the side of her grey pencil skirt before slipping off her shoes and sitting by the edge. After a few seconds, she dips her feet in the water and leans forward, elbows on her thighs and her head in hands.

"I didn't _lie_ exactly. I just withheld the truth. I needed to."

Santana follows the blonde's movements and dips her feet into the pool, which immediately warms up her body. "Why did you _need_ too?"

"Britt needs you."

A sharp pain tugs at Santana's frail heartstrings, and she has to physically restrain herself from doubling over. She braces herself, placing both hands on each side of her, making sure she doesn't fall into the pool due to the intense ache. The words yank at her heart and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to handle the agony in silence.

After a few seconds the pain subsides and she inhales deeply. "That's not fair, Q."

"You're the only one that can actually protect her."

Santana snaps her head around, the anger bubbling deep in the pit of her stomach. "That's bullshit Fabray. There are plenty of _other_ people, more talented than me, who can do a hell of a lot better job. People that have trained for years in the Secret Service instead of spending four lousy, and incredibly fucking boring, weeks training in a dark room and getting the shit kicked out of you till you've learned how to protect someone. You know that. And hiring me, knowing how much I've been through because of _her_, frankly, was a complete fucking piss take."

The blonde doesn't even flinch at the Latina's outburst, surely after all these years she's used to it, Santana assumes.

"They're not you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Santana hisses, venom dripping off every word.

Quinn sighs heavily and squeezes the edge of the pool, looking out into the distance with sad eyes, "You'd do anything for her. You'd go to the ends of the Earth to keep her safe. She needs someone who knows her like the back of their hand, who knows absolutely everything about her and would do everything in their power to protect her from this psychopath."

Santana grimaces. She knows it's the truth but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. Especially considering the mere knowledge that Brittany is less than fifty yards away in the big ass mansion behind her is already causing gashes on her heart.

"And that's why we need – no - why _she _needs you."

* * *

><p>"<em>Sometimes, the way I feel about you is kind of a pain in the ass," The Latina mumbled into the cool air of Brittany's dorm room as she stared at the ceiling.<em>

_Brittany propped herself up on one elbow, cupping her chin in one hand. She frowned, the adorable crease forming just above her brow while her lower lip jutted out into her signature pout._

"_Why?"_

_Santana giggled and twisted her head to look at her girlfriend, brushing a lock of hair behind Brittany's ear and allowing her fingertips to linger over the blonde's silky soft cheek._

"_No, baby, not in a bad way."_

_The blondes face immediately relaxed into a small smile._

"_Because I'd do absolutely anything for you. Even if it put me in jeopardy. I know it sounds stupid," Santana punctuated by trailing an invisible line down Brittany's arm, reaching her hand and threading their fingers together intimately. "But I just… I just want you to know that I'd die for you if it meant saving you. I'd do everything in my power."_

_Santana tilted her head back in embarrassment, realizing how corny her words had been. A long slender finger tilted her chin to the side, and Santana looked deep into sparkling sapphire orbs._

"_Really?" Brittany whispered, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as her sweet breath accompanied the words as they printed themselves on caramel skin._

_Santana rolled over Brittany's body, placing herself in between the blonde's parted legs and lent on her forearms, so she was propping herself up as one hand tangled itself into loose blonde locks._

"_Like there'd be any other choice. No matter what happens I know I'm always going to feel like this, always wanting you, always going to want to protect you, because Britt, baby, you're it for me."_

_Blue eyes glimmered just that little bit brighter, and Brittany grinned from ear to ear. "Baby, that was really cheesy."_

_Santana's heart deflated and she felt her ears and cheeks tint with a dark shade of pink. So she ducked her head, allowing her forehead to rest against Brittany's shoulder as she dwelled in her embarrassment._

Estúpido, estúpido, _she_ _thought to herself as she rolled her forehead back and forth across the dancer's sculpted shoulder._

_It was only when Brittany cupped her cheeks and brought her to eye level that she suddenly forgot the reason for mentally cursing herself in Spanish._

"_But I guess I'm just as much of a cheese ball because I'd do the same," she muttered, her lips inches from Santana's._

_The Latina licked her lips on instinct and exhaled heavily, feeling every contour of Brittany's body molding into her own as her heart fluttered furiously against her ribcage._

_The effect Brittany had on her was unbelievable. With one look her heart pounded furiously, with one touch her body felt like it was about to burst into flames, and with just one kiss it felt like she'd died on gone to heaven._

_She leant forward, nuzzling her nose against Brittany's, trying to nudge up so the blonde would meet her kiss. The dancer and scrunched her nose up and made a sound so heavenly Santana almost died right then and there._

"_Fuck I love you," Santana whispered, her lips inches from Brittany's._

_The blonde bent her knees, allowing Santana to sink further into her body as she ran her fingers over the dip of the Latina's back. "I love you too."_

_For a long moment they just lay there, staring deeply into each other's eyes. Santana's ribcage was almost breaking underneath the intense thrashing her heart was giving it, her stomach buzzed with the thousands of butterflies floating around inside._

_Santana ducked her head, placing kisses along Brittany's jaw, cheeks, and up to the shell of her ear where she took the blondes earlobe between her teeth teasingly. The dancer continued to run her hands up and down Santana's spine, leaving trails of fire under every imaginary line._

"_You do realize we just said I love you for the first time, right?" Brittany whispered, her breath tickling the shell of Santana's ear._

_The Latina's eyes opened comically wide, and she thanked the Lord her surprise was hidden. She hadn't even registered that the three words that failed to escape her mouth to anyone else just flowed out with such ease._

_She withdrew her head, staring down at the bright blue eyes that gleamed at her and she giggled. As much as it scared the crap out of her, she knew Brittany wouldn't take advantage of her. Maybe that's why they just came out so easily, like she didn't have to second guess them. Because in her heart, they were real and always would be._

_Instead of opting for a probably ridiculous corny response, she shook her head and nuzzled her nose against Brittany's cheek._

"_Just shut up and kiss me," she whispered, her lips ghosting over Brittany's._

_The blonde giggled and flipped their position, so she was now straddling Santana's hips as she bent down and pressed their lips together, where they stayed for the rest of the night._

* * *

><p>"I know you know it too, Santana. <em>You<em> are the best when it comes to Brittany's protection," Quinn comments, crossing her arms across her white blouse cladded chest.

Santana pinches the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb, creating circular motions in any way to tame the anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

After a long pause, she feels a slight pressure on her right shoulder and twists her neck to see Quinn smiling at her sadly,

"I don't mean to take advantage, Santana, really I don't. But we _need_ you. _She_ needs you."

_Another low, but equally as excruciating blow, _Santana thinks.

"This psycho is somewhere out there," She punctuates by sweeping her hands dramatically over her head, gesturing to the world. "And they've already broken into the house, even though Karofsky reassured me that security was top notch. God knows what would've happened if Britt had been inside."

The venom drips off the back of Santana's throat, and the sudden urge to bolt into the blondes arms and make _personally sure_ Brittany is safe burns through her leg muscles. But she clamps it down, and grips tighter to the pool edge.

"He was in the house?" she questions, concern lacing her tone.

Quinn nods.

"When?"

"The fourth letter was in her room when she found it unfortunately, and that was about two weeks ago. The first letter was about five or six weeks ago though."

"First?" Santana questions. "How many times has this happened?"

The blonde shuffles and brings one leg out of the pool, shaking it free of moisture and tucking it underneath her other. "As far as we know, four times."

Santana's eyes widen. "Four?" she breathes, her heart quickening its pace in fear.

"Yeah. The first three were sent through the mail, and it wasn't until the fourth that Britt found out."

"You didn't tell her!" the Latina half-yells, the fury bubbling once more in her stomach.

Quinn shakes her head. "Karofsky thought it'd be in her best interest not to know. She's already got enough stress with the few upcoming shows, and he's head of security so what he says about her safety, goes."

Santana frowns. She immediately doesn't like the sound of this Karofsky character. She wonders momentarily if her arrival has put a spanner in the works, and if she's now personally responsible for Brittany's safety.

"But when B found the letter she demanded to know what was going on. You know how she can be."

Another tug at Santana's fragile heart, _thanks Q._

"Sorry," the blonde mumbles, sensing Santana's pain.

She shakes her head. "It's fine Q. Just need to adjust being around her. She was... shocked, shall we say, when she saw me earlier."

"You've already seen her?" Quinn asks, her voice full of surprise.

Santana furrows her brows. "Is that not why you came to find me? I thought she'd told you…"

"Uhm, no. I forgot to pack away a few pictures she has in the pool house. I just assumed you'd seen them after I saw you out here with that depressing look on your face."

The Latina shakes her head and sighs heavily. "Nah. I saw her earlier. Knocked over a stupid porcelain duck and when I bent down to pick up the pieces, she was behind me."

* * *

><p><em>Neither of them said anything. Santana stares at Brittany, drinking in the sight of the blonde. Her head's pounding and her chest almost gives way to the intense weight building upon it.<em>

_She's seeing Brittany for the first time in four years. Four goddamn fucking years, and for what? A job she didn't even want in the first place._

"_Wh-what are you doing here?" Brittany breathes, her voice an octave lower than before._

_Brown eyes glaze over, tears built behind them and Santana squeezes them shut, hoping for the strength to not let them fall. A part of her wants to scream, to break down and yell explicit things at the blonde that broke her heart; that caused her to become this cold creature that lives inside an olive skinned canvas. But she can't. She can't even breathe, let alone shout._

"_Santana?" the blonde whispers, interrupting the brunette's train of thought._

_Santana's heart flutters agonizingly slowly. It's the effect Brittany's heavenly voice almost always had on her. Except this time it's different. This time, her knees tremble under the call of her name, almost causing her to buckle to the ground._

_She couldn't respond. The golf ball-sized bubble lodges inside her throat, trapping any words that brimmed behind it. She swallows, feeling her throat restrict as the blonde fidgets with the hem of her tank top, something Santana recognizes as one of her nervous twitches._

_Brittany reads her expression like she always used to fucking do and steps forward, closing the gap between them until their bodies were inches apart. She wants to step back; she wants to get away from the blonde as fast as she fucking can and curl up somewhere, allowing the pain to consume her. But once again, she can't._

_So instead, Santana inhales, allowing the intoxicating aroma of her best friend - a mix between vanilla and coconut - to seep to her very soul._

_Her eyes flutter shut as the scent she'd so badly needs lounges around inside her brain, causing her mind to swim carelessly. Her whole body relaxes, and she exhales heavily._

_Suddenly the reality of the situation brings the Latina out of her own mind, and before she can even debate mentally on what to do, she bolts out of the sliding doors by the queen sized bed._

_Her heart pounds wildly against her ribcage, causing all the remaining strength in her body to slowly seep out any available duct, whether it be trembling fists or teary eyes as she runs through the thick foliage surrounding the pool house and, ironically, away from the only thing she'd ever ran to._

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry Santana, I really am," Quinn mutters, shaking the Latina out of her memory.<p>

She looks to the blonde, which confirms the sincerity in her voice as Quinn places her hand reassuringly on the Latina's shoulder and squeezes. "I was gonna tell you tomorrow, after you'd settled in and after Karofsky gave you the low down, but… y'know."

"Yeah Q. I know."

Silence greets their conversation and takes the reigns. They both sit in the silence, Quinn watching Santana for any reaction while the Latina's focused on her distorted looking feet moving in the water. She sighs and turns her head away from the blonde, feeling hazel eyes burn an imaginary hole into her temple.

"Look S," Quinn starts as she pushes off the pool edge so she's towering above the Latina. "If you wanna leave, then you can. You don't have to stay because you obviously have a choice…"

_Easy for you to say, _Santana thinks, knowing Quinn doesn't even believe herself.

"…I just thought you could put everything aside, get the job done and then hopefully return to the army, y'know, as long as your hand's alright and stuff. I'm not asking for much, Lopez."

Santana's head snaps up, staring into darkened hazel eyes. She can see that Quinn's getting pissed off, but she doesn't know why. _I haven't done anything wrong._

"So please, just consider it for tonight, and then in the morning we'll talk, okay?"

The Latina blinks slowly, her mind arguing as she tries to find the part that controls her mouth. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I said okay. I'll consider it Q. But I can't promise anything."

Quinn nods, her lips curling at the side into a grateful smile. "That's all I'm asking."

Santana looks forward again and grasps tighter onto the edge of the pool as Quinn picks up her shoes and walks away.

When she hears the door shut she buries her face into her hand, rubbing roughly at her eyes as she argues with herself inside her head.

_Why should you protect her? She broke your heart. You don't _have_ to do anything._

_It's Brittany._

_So? She's done nothing to you._

_It's Brittany._

She shakes her head, knowing ultimately those two words are actually bigger than any other sentence. She's pissed. She's fucking furious. Because she knows Quinn knows that Santana would do absolutely anything for Brittany. Especially now that she's already here. At least if she was back in Lima, she'd have a fighting chance because she'd find something, _anything_, persuading her to stay in Lima and not to go to LA.

But now she's here. Now she doesn't really have a choice. As much as she'd like one, she knows that the world will somehow work against her, routing her here to protect Brittany. Fuck, even Quinn knows that. And somehow, she already dislikes Quinn just that tiny bit more for knowing that, and definitely taking advantage of it.

"Guess I'm staying," Santana whispers to herself as she hugs herself tighter and heads back to the pool house where, undoubtedly, she's going to have a _very_ sleepless night.

* * *

><p>"Lopez! Wake up!"<p>

Santana stirs, the just-woke-up feeling tugging at her eyelids as she squints and cracks open an eye.

"Lopez! Open the goddamn door!"

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and rubs at her eyes. She pressed on her thighs and gets to her feet, before staggering through the pool house and to the rattling glass-paned door.

She lifts up the corner of the blind, peering through to see Puck standing in a white short-sleeved button down shirt, jeans, and aviators. She rolls her eyes and twists the lock, unlocking the door as she heads back towards the large sofa behind her.

Puck pushes open the door and tentatively peers inside, pushing his aviators on top of his head as he searches for Santana.

"I'm here, dickwad," she mumbles, still rubbing her eyes as her bare legs dangle off the edge of the sofa.

"Army didn't do anything to your body I see, apart from maybe toning up those legs of yours," Puck comments suggestively, his voice lacing with arousal as he eyes up Santana's half naked body. That is, if girl boxers and a tank top constitute for being half-naked.

"Fuck off," she grumbles, tucking her legs beneath her as she brings herself into a seated position. "What do you want?"

He bumbles over and plops himself down on the same sofa heavily, propping his feet on the coffee table as he tucks his hands behind his head. "Still not a morning person I see."

Santana grinds her teeth and bits back the anger. "Skip to the fucking point, Noah. I'm in a shit mood already."

"You just woke up!"

She narrows her eyes at him, telling him the information he already knows with just one look.

"Oh," his voice falters with realization. "You know 'bout Britt then."

Santana nods. "Well congratulations, looks like someone morphed into Einstein overnight," she says sarcastically.

"Alright calm it babe," he mutters, before studying the Latina with narrowed eyes. "It's really eating you up, isn't it?"

"Five points to Puckerman," she says bluntly, her face hardening as Puck offers a sympathetic smile.

He shuffles in place, turning his body so he's leaning one arm on the back of the sofa and one leg tucked underneath the other.

"Lopez, babe, just talk to her. Neither of you are the same people as you were two years ago. Shit happens, and you've probably both changed. Just talk to her and maybe you can get some peace of mind."

Santana scowls and lets out a sarcastic chuckle. "Aw Puckerman, how sweet. How about I paint your nails first and then we can put on face masks and talk about which guys _you _think are cute?"

Puck punches her lightly in the arm. "Shut up. I'm just saying."

"Well don't, Puck. I really don't need any advice from _you._ Thanks."

Puck furrows his brows and raises his hands defensively. "Woah hold back the hostility babe. I've changed too. For all you know I could be shacked up with two kids."

Santana raises an eyebrow. "And are you?"

He laughs. "Nah, I'm the Puckersauraus babe. Number wah. I ain't gettin' shacked up anytime soon, not while I still look like this." He sweeps down his body.

"Whatever Noah," Santana replies, flipping him off with a wave of her hand. "So anyway, you didn't answer my question. What do you want?"

"Well actually, this is about the psycho. Karofsky's waiting in the house for you," Puck says as he slaps Santana's thigh playfully and stands up, jumping out the way of a harder slap she was about to give him.

"You need to get changed and come up to the house. Switch to business mode and put on your professional shoes, alright? We don't need you blubbering like a baby when you see her again. Or sprinting out for that matter," he says as he raises an eyebrow.

_Shit, he knows you ran out on her._

Santana gulps, feeling her throat thicken as she knows she's actually going to have to stand in a room with Brittany for more than two seconds, and doesn't have an option of running away.

_It's your job. Remember. Just a job,_ she thinks to herself, repeating several times over to try to convince herself. But ultimately, she knows it's not really _just a job._

"I know. I'll be fine. Just give me a minute or two to change and I'll be up."

Puck heads towards the door, pausing as he twists the knob and opens it. "She's really grateful you know."

The Latina looks away, and Puck continues. "I'm glad you stayed."

"Not sure if I can say the same thing," she replies sadly, rubbing her wrists.

He offers her a sad smile, since apparently that's the only type of smile anyone's going to give her now since finding out she was the last person to know about working for Brittany. It pisses her off, and sure, everyone was only 'looking out for her', but _fuck, _everyone needs to stop looking at her so damn sympathetically and get a grip. The past is the past after all.

"We'll see," Puck mutters under his breath as he exits, shutting the door behind him.

Santana shakes her head and turns on her heels, padding towards the bedroom and preparing for the second meeting with the woman who broke her heart.

* * *

><p>About twenty minutes later, she's wearing a black blouse and a faded pair of jeans and walking up the large marble staircase towards the house. From the car the entrance looked daunting, but now up close, it just looks so <em>Brittany.<em>

On each side of the large Greek columns supporting the concrete cover are two little ducks, chasing one another around the column as if they're about to bite each other's tails. The doorknob is plane but there's a carved unicorn on the end, which causes Santana to smile. As she reaches for the doorbell, she notices that it's _actually in the shape of a duck, _with the bill as the button. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, pressing it in and hearing the ring echo throughout the inside.

She takes a quick glance around the front yard, taking note of the lack of security guards, or _anyone _for that matter. As she cranes her neck, she can just about make out the large silver gates, which are wide open, and then looks back to the pool house, where she notices the opening she saw the previous night.

_I see why I was hired_, she thinks to herself, laughing bitterly.

After a few moments, the large bulky man from earlier opens the left of the huge double doors and narrows his eyes as soon as he sees her. His shoulders are broad like a football player, and his legs are shorter than his back. He kind of reminds Santana of Shrek, and she bites back the chuckle, knowing that judging by his scowling face, he probably wouldn't be pleased with her comparison.

"Lopez," he states, his voice rough and deep.

Santana nods. "And you are?"

"Dave Karofsky. Head of Security."

"Really? Still?" she asks sarcastically. Karofsky scowls and grinds his teeth together audibly.

She steps inside the house, ignoring the way he refuses to budge as their shoulders brush together and examines the house. The inside of the house is somehow bigger than the outside. The foyer is, for lack of a better description, fucking _huge._ A large staircase stands in front of her, and several people dressed in black clothing and a few in maid outfits wander past.

Santana widens her eyes as several of the people (dancers, judging by the way they glide across the floor, obviously not as gracefully as Brittany always did, but still they were gliding) look down at her.

That's something she doesn't miss about Brittany, probably the _only_ thing and technically, it didn't really have anything to do with her. All of Brittany's dance friends, whenever they'd go out for a night out, would always look down at Santana like she was a piece of crap on the bottom of their shoe.

* * *

><p>"<em>I think I'm gonna stay in tonight," Santana said as she threw herself down on Brittany's bed, arms crossed and staring up at the ceiling.<em>

_She quickly glanced to Brittany, who was standing at the door of her closet, in _incredibly_sexy lingerie Santana notes, with arms crossed with one finger tapping her chin. The blonde turned, giving Santana a quizzical look. "Why?"_

"_Not really up for it," Santana lied._

_Brittany picked up a dress and took it off the hanger, slipping it on before heading to the body mirror armed with lip gloss and mascara. "They're my friends, San. They're not that bad."_

"_Not that bad? They spend the majority of the evening brown-nosing each other and discussing whose arabesque was in class today and which of their _many_ daddy-paid tutors taught them well," Santana responded, a little sharper than intended with sarcasm dripping off every word._

_Brittany scowled and shook her head. "Santana, this is ridiculous. I hang out with your friends. Can't you just be nice to them for once in your life?"_

_Santana sat up, leaning back on her palms as she watched Brittany's face contort with anger as she smudged her mascara. "I've tried, Britt."_

"_No, you haven't. You've met them three times and every single time you've ended up scoffing at every remark and slashing them with your vicious words."_

"_Because they look down at me like I'm scum Brittany and they compare everything they have to mine, purposely pointing out that I'm a piece of shit," Santana spat back, pushing off the bed and leaned against the wall opposite the mirror Brittany was at._

_Brittany shook her head. "Are we seriously having this argument _again?_ I've already told you, they don't think that about you. They actually _like _you Santana, and they try. Which is the least I can say for you…" She whispered the last words under her breath, trying to prevent Santana from hearing._

"_That's lovely. Thanks Britt. Just go out with your fucking stuck up friends and I'll stay here."_

_Brittany snapped her head around, her fists trembling with anger as her face reddened. Despite the blonde being cheery and innocent and sweet, (well not innocent, Santana knew what she was like in bed and that was _far_ from innocent), when she was angry, it kind of scared the Latina._

"_Just stop! Stop being such a…" Brittany trailed off, trying to bite the word Santana hated._

_Santana narrowed her eyes, hearing the name before the blonde actually said it. "Being such a what?"_

"_Nothing," Brittany responded bluntly, turning and applying a thin layer of lip gloss._

_The Latina stepped forward. "No, go on. Say it."_

"_Santana…"_

"_No. Say it," Santana hissed firmly._

_Brittany spun round. "A bitch. There, I said it."_

"_Did your _friends_ tell you to call me that?"_

_Blue eyes narrowed. "No, if I'd said what they've called you I would've called you a…"_

"_Scummy bitch? Piece of shit? Anything along those lines?" Santana spat, venom dripping off her words._

"_Frankly, yes. When you're acting like this you fit into their description, Santana."_

_Santana shook her head, clenching her jaw as she grabbed her keys off the cabinet. Anger burned through her veins, sparking the adrenaline as a sharp sting, like a piece of glass, penetrated her heart and twisted painfully. She could feel her eyes becoming glossy, tears brimming behind her dark colored eyes._

_But she swallowed against her thickened throat, withholding the tears as she bit down her tongue, knowing she'd regret it in the morning if she replied to Brittany's remark. In one swift movement she was at the door, clicking open the handle when a hand tugged on her bicep, twisting her around._

"_Santana, will you just stop? I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."_

_The Latina snarled at the blonde and looked at the palm grasping her with narrowed eyes. Brittany immediately removed her hand and looked at Santana with big puppy eyes. Santana fucking hated it when she did that, she hated that she could use those big bright eyes and calm her almost instantly._

_But this time she pushed passed it, removing her eyesight from Brittany as she shrugged away from her. "Fuck you, Brittany. Hope you have a nice night with your lovely fucking friends."_

_And she slammed the door, leaving Brittany with tear-filled eyes to match her own._

* * *

><p><em>So much wasted time,<em> Santana thought to herself as she shakes off the memory and attempts to remove the accompanying sadness.

She turns to Karofsky just as he shuts the door. He puffs out his chest, crossing his arms and staring at her intently with an _I'm-in-charge_ look about him. She scoffs and raises an eyebrow, before clapping her hands together.

"So? Are you just gonna stand there or are we going to get to work and actually _try_ to protect Br-"

Santana swallows, not being able to speak _her name_ as it lodges in her throat. Karofsky grimaces and grinds his teeth together, obviously not taking note of Santana's unfinished sentence.

"This way," he comments, sweeping with his hand towards the room on Santana's right.

She nods and walks through it, shoving her hands in her pockets as she enters a large room filled with black and white blinds standing on pegs like she's in a photo shoot. She arches an eyebrow, and watches several flashes as they go off behind the blinds, and heads towards them.

As she rounds the corner, she sees a sofa in the middle, and around twenty or thirty dancers lined up, going through dance movements being called by a short brunette. Santana squints her eyes and leans her head forward, recognizing the shrill voice and mere height of the woman waving her hand around and widens her eyes.

_Rachel fucking Berry._

"One, two, three, four! Come on guys! You've got to get it right!" she yells, her voice just as ear-biting and annoying as it was years ago.

A shorter man stands next to her. Thick, black rimmed glasses perch on the end of his nose and his brown hair is combed over to the side. His frame is thin, but somehow still quite muscular. He joins Rachel and they start conversing, waving with their hands as he spins in place, mimicking a movement Santana saw the group behind them doing a second ago.

There's a heavy dance beat echoing in the background, which some other dancers are body popping and making up random dances to, probably as a warm up of something, Santana assumes.

"Wait here. Quinn will be here in a minute," Karofsky says firmly as he prods Santana in the back.

She restrains the urge to grab his hand and twist his finger in a Chinese finger lock which will cause him to kneel in front of her and beg for her to let go, therefore humiliating him and his dumb ass appearance, and decides to feign a smile at him as he turns and walks away, muttering to himself unintelligibly.

Santana steps to the side as one of the male dancers sneers at her to move. She once again fights the urge to fling the stuck up ass over her shoulder and send him flying into the group of female dancers on the side, clad in tight black unitards that are looking at her with intense disdain.

"Santana?" a soft voice calls.

She turns to see Quinn standing in front of her, hair tied up in a high ponytail, secretary glasses perched on the end of her nose and clutching a black folder to her chest.

"I need to give you a formal introduction to the crew, just so they know who's walking around the estate before we get to work."

Santana shakes her head. "Fabray, honestly, I think I'm alri-"

The music suddenly stops and she turns to see Quinn bending over to turn off the boom box in the corner. "Everyone, turn your attention to me."

The Latina shuffles her weight to the other leg, suddenly becoming very conscious of her make-up less face and loose, unbrushed hair. _No wonder they were giving me strange looks, I look like a well-dressed hobo, _she thinks as she catches a glance of herself in a mirror on the far side of the room.

"This is Santana Lopez. She's just come back from Afghanistan and is now here to watch over Brittany."

A few laughs come from the crowd as all faces turn to Santana. She grimaces, mentally noting to kick Quinn later for embarrassing her.

"Why does she need to _watch over Brittany_?" a voice calls from the crowd. Santana snaps her head up to see the dorky looking guy that was talking to Rachel earlier speak. "That's what we're here for."

"Yeah, we don't need some Army reject," another voice calls.

Santana can't spot the owner of the voice but manages to paste an aggressive scowl on her face, one she hopes will put off the dancers from speaking to her.

"Now now, ladies," Quinn starts, receiving an 'oi' from the dorky looking guy. "Apologies, Artie. Anyway, Santana's here on special business, order from the Secret Service if you must know, so it'd be best if you didn't distract her from her work."

"Seriously, I'll kick your ass if Santana doesn't first. And trust me ladies, and Artie, you wouldn't want to get on her bad side," another voice joins in. "Ex-US Army officer and four week trained Secret Service agent, instead of four years for others, with a black belt in martial arts, you're gonna want to stay away."

_That voice,_ Santana thinks. The voice that is made up from all the good things in the world. A bright sunny day… a baby's first word… the first crisp winters morning. That voice that sends shivers down Santana's spine and causes her heart to crumple in an instant.

Santana swallows, feeling her throat thicken by the second as she scans the room for the source of the voice. Surely enough, Brittany's sitting on the sofa, her head peering over the top as she locks eyes with Santana.

The once bright and exuberant eyes had dulled and darkened with life and fatigue. Santana's heart twists painfully, remembering the brightness that once consumed the beautiful ocean blue pools and she sighs audibly, breaking eye contact as she feels another set of eyes boring into the side of her head.

Quinn gives her a quizzical look but shakes it off. "Yeah, like Brittany said, don't get on the bad side of her. Leave her to her shit."

Brittany and Santana both chuckle at the same time. The Latina stops and whips her head up, meeting dark blue eyes once more. All the dancers disperse once again, muttering between each other as they glance every now and then to the Latina, examining and scrutinizing her choice of clothing.

"Nicely put, Q," Santana whispers, her voice raspier than usual, which surprises her.

The shorter blonde raises and eyebrow and flickers her gaze between the two women who are still staring intently at each other. Santana knows Quinn can sense the sadness and hurt burning through her body, and nudges her. "Get it together, Lopez."

Santana snaps herself out of the daze and straightens her back, hooking her thumbs into her back pockets as she looks everywhere in the room except at the pair of blue eyes she _knows_ are staring at her.

"Right, now everyone get back to work and Brittany, would you mind coming with us, please?" Quinn suggests, looking over to the blonde who's laughing with the dorky looking guy.

Something bubbles in the pit of Santana's stomach. It slurs and burns her insides as she clenches her jaw tightly. She can feel her teeth grind together and fist clench painfully tightly, her nails digging into her palms with intense force, possibly causing scratches, but Santana doesn't care.

She can feel the acidic venom develop in the back of her throat, dripping slowly and painfully down her tongue where she knows the Spanish curses are just lying, waiting to be spoken.

_Classic Santana,_ her monologue speaks, _jealous over someone that isn't even yours. Almost as bad as you being loyal to a woman who doesn't want you anymore. It's just sad._

Santana winces, her body shaking momentarily as she inhales deeply, trying to calm herself and minimize the ache throbbing at her chest.

"...I'll be right back, Artie," she hears Brittany say, and her head snaps up.

Dark blue orbs immediately meet chocolate ones and Santana's features harden. Her back straightens almost on instinct and she clears her throat.

"Miss Pierce," she says bluntly, her voice cold and empty. _Just like your soul_, she thinks to herself.

Her body rejects the formality almost instantly, thousands of memories of her and Brittany lying naked in her bed, cuddled up and kissing lightly every now and then, just enjoying each other's company as _informally_ as you could possibly get. But she shrugs it off, repeating to herself that it's _just a job._

Brittany furrows her brows and cocks her head to the side disapprovingly. "San-"

"Let's get to work now ladies. Time's ticking," Quinn interrupts, obviously sensing the tension as she claps her folder against her thighs.

The shorter blonde leads them through the foyer, where Karofsky joins, and up the stairs to a large bedroom with 'B' printed on the door. Santana almost smiles, but remembers her company and situation and bites it down as she stands as far away from Brittany as she possibly can without being in another room.

_Remember what Puck said. Business mode. Professional shoes. And try not to run away this time. _She repeats to herself mentally, trying to put her professionalism before her personal feelings.

She knows it's something she's going to have to get used to around Brittany. Three years ago she'd be able to kick off her business shoes from her dumb ass lectures and kick back with a bottle of cheap beer, with Brittany's back pressed into her chest as they lounge around on either her or Brittany's dorm sofa watching Sweet Valley High.

She'd have no need to act professional or switch to business mode around Brittany, because well, it was Brittany. She was Santana's sweet release after a long day of lectures. She was Santana's back massage after an intense work out and the cold beer at the end of the night to take the edge off. She was just… well, Santana's.

"This is where we found the letter," Karofsky announces, gesturing to the ridiculously sized bed in the center of the room.

"Along with a little something extra whoever-it-was decided to leave," Brittany adds, disgust lacing her tone.

Santana furrows her brows and looks to Brittany, trying to make sure her heart doesn't crumple or legs buckle under her beautiful cobalt stare.

"Something extra?" she questions, raising an eyebrow.

Something lights up in Brittany's eyes, as if she's glad Santana's addressing her, but Karofsky steps in front and curls his lips upwards.

"Yeah. We had a couple of guys from forensics come in, and they erm… Found some, erm…" He clears his throat, his face reddening by the second.

Santana raises an eyebrow and squints. "Some what?"

"Bodily fluids," he replies bluntly, his voice croaking in embarrassment.

Santana thinks over the statement and looks to Brittany, whose upper lip is curled in disgust. Quinn then looks to her with wide eyes and a _seriously-you're-gonna-make-me-say-it_ expression. Then it clicks.

"_Oh_, _bodily fluids," _she repeats, her words slow.

Karofsky coughs. "Someone masturbated on the bed.'

"I got that, lard-ass. But thanks for the heads up, I highly doubt I would've figured that one out if it wasn't for your Taco Bell dish bitch intellect. So thank you, really. Big help," Santana spits sarcastically, her words dripping with fury.

Just the thought of someone jerking off in Brittany's room with the image of the tall, leggy, blonde in their mind is enough to set Santana off, snapping at anyone within her reach. She knows she probably shouldn't have let it out on the Shrek-look-a-like, but right now, she couldn't care less.

Quinn lets out a small snicker, and then contorts her face into a disgusted expression as she remembers the situation, her face mimicking Brittany's lip curl. Santana spins on her heel and watches Brittany suck her lips in, as if she's trying to laugh.

And for a second, just a second, she completely forgets about the dark, lingering ache in the darkest crevices of her heart, threatening her very existence - and she smiles. Just like she always used to when she was finding the blue-eyed blonde ridiculously adorable.

Blue eyes meet brown and they sparkle momentarily before a tug on Santana's heartstrings brings her back to the present. She straightens her back and clicks back into Army mode, where she clamps her heels together and rids her face of any emotion.

She swears a flash of sadness crossed Brittany's eyes, but she shakes it off and looks back to Karofsky. "The house is wide open."

Karofsky frowns, and his dark green orbs darken. "Excuse me?"

"The house is wide open. You people have no clue what security is or what it takes to achieve it."

The large man crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow in disbelief, puffing out his chest in some weak attempt of trying to put Santana in her place. The Latina scoffs mentally and starts pacing the room.

"And you do?" the deep voice of Karofsky belts, accompanied by a scoff.

Santana spins on her heels and glares at the man, ignoring the eyes _she knows_ are looking at her, trying to calm her down and speaks. "Considering I've been here for two days and you've yet to do anything about the large fucking gap in the fence behind the pool house, open to the fucking public to enter at any time, yeah, I'd say I do, Tubbo."

"Tell us how you want to work and we'll accommodate your needs, Santana." Quinn interjects, tightening her grip on the black folder in her arms.

Santana ignores the blue eyes burning a hole into the back of her head as heads towards the window and spreads the blinds apart with her forefinger and thumb, peering through to see the front yard, which overlooks the large driveway and thick forests. She notices the large, silver gates are _still open_ and shakes her head.

She mentally debates whether to let her 18 year old self take over, the one yelling and screaming about how she's going to go _all Lima Heights_, or whether to allow the newer, mature, Army-trained Santana to make an appearance. However, without really wanting to, she allows the cobalt eyes she knows are silently pleading to her make her decision.

"Look, Dave, you still have your job, God knows why," she says, crossing her arms and glancing to Quinn who gives her a warning look. "But you do. So we're going to be working together for a while, and we're going to have to tolerate each other's company. We have Br-…"

She swallows against her thickened throat, the blonde's name still lodging in her throat even after the multiple hours in her presence.

"… Miss Pierce's safety at the top of our list. And I've been asked personally to do my job here, and then as Quinn has said, I'm allowed to take my leave. So as much as I've loved my few hours of enjoyment at the Pierce Residence, I'd like to do my job, sort security out without a fuss, and get out of here, okay?"

Blue eyes glisten in the corner of her eye, and she manages to summon all her strength to restrain herself from noticing the hurt flashing across them. Karofsky nods firmly, while Quinn absentmindedly plays with the edges of the black folder as if to say _well-duh _at Santana's harsh announcement.

"Okay. Let's get your job done then," Karofsky replies after a long pause, his teeth making an unpleasant grinding noise.

Santana glances quickly at Brittany, who immediately snaps her head up as if the Latina called her name and their eyes lock. She grimaces and clenches her jaw, feeling her teeth reject the intense pressure as she feels her heart twist painfully and looks back up to the bulky man.

"Let's."


	6. chapter five

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Five]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>8200

* * *

><p>It's 4 P.M. when Santana takes off to examine the fences surrounding the residence. The sun is beating down heavily through the thick foliage, but the larger leaves are shading some of the Latina. Her head is aching, the lack of sleep is invading her brain and she rubs a hand over her face as she discovers the next gap. Number twelve.<p>

She takes a moment to write down the location of the hole, quickly scribbling it down on the grounds map given to her by Puck. She nibbles on the end of the marker as she peers over the fence, examining the two foot drop separating her from the pavement below.

Someone could easily climb that without a struggle or a ladder.

The grounds are large. It's taken three hours to cover over three quarters of the residence, and a whole page in her notepad has already been taken up. But she continues. The sun is warm and the quiet is peaceful. Much better than the constant worry back in Afghanistan, and so much better than always having to be on edge. Now that's up to St. James and Chang. It's their problem, not hers. She flinches at the thought. She's a bitch.

A light breeze picks up, swaying the foliage and flowing through her loose dark locks. A tickle forms on the back of her neck and she swipes it off with a flick of her hand. But it continues. She wants to look around, study the surroundings for any traces of followers and give into the burning military training buried inside her chest.

But her feet carry her forward, until she meets another gap. Once more, she scribbles down the location and nibbles on the pen, examining the map. There's something off about each mark. The scale seems to be screwing with Santana's brain as she thinks they're each an equal distance apart.

A tingling sensation shoots down her spine, and tickles the hairs on her neck. It's cold. Colder than the crisp wind. Her mind burns as a she fights the sweep of paranoia casting over her. An unfamiliar scent fills her nose and she winces, turning on her heels to glance around the area, examining every shadow and swaying tree that plays with her mind. Just to make sure.

Eighteen months ago, she would've been grasping her gun tightly for the first time, ignoring the intense heat invading her thick military pants and body armor as her teammates crawl towards a known terrorist's base camp. But after seeing the most mentally scarring images possibly known to man, she'd return to the newly found safe base and crawl into bed, spending the night hearing imaginary noises and shuffles, which caused her to fear for her life.

Nothing in goddamn LA can be worse than lying in a damp tent on a really fucking uncomfortable Z bed, wondering if she or one of her teammates is going to be the next sent home in a cheap wooden casket.

So now she shakes off the paranoia and follows the remaining stretch of the fence.

It's just paranoia. She's just gotten out the military after spending two years of her life there, constantly on edge. It's an irrational thought.

Her feet meet several tree roots on the way, but her legs gracefully step over them, making sure not to make much noise. It's not something she's doing on purpose. She's used to having to walk around light footed, trying her best not to make a sound, despite the heavy gear or whatever St. James decided to lumber her unit with that day.

So when she hears a twig break, her head snaps up and eyes narrow. The years of military training kick in, and the next thing she knows, she's hit the floor, stomach first. Her hand hovers over the belt, where she knows her Desert Eagle used to be. Damn airport security.

She inwardly kicks herself and reaches down into her boot where a small switch blade is. It's better than nothing. She scans the surrounding area for the source, making sure to study every shadow and dark crevice. Her vision of the area isn't clear, the thick bushes and huge trees doing their damn best to cloud it. She feels her pulse in her ears and swallows against a thickened throat. Paranoia? Bullshit.

Her lungs inhale and exhale slowly and deeply in reaction, Rutherford's words echoing around her head; _take a deep breath Lopez, it slows everything down._ Just like he said, the whole world seems to turn just that little bit slower. Her body is trained to suppress the instant psychological reactions, like her fight or flight response, so she has no need to flinch at the adrenaline as it pumps through her veins.

Her eyes focus on a dark figure, standing ten or eleven feet away beside a large oak tree. The thick foliage is _still_ restricting her vision, so she can't make out whether it's just another damn bush or if it's _actually_ a person.

"_Johnson! Hurry your ass up! I need to piss!"_

Santana whips her head around and spots a figure pacing the gates at the front of the house. She glances back to the oak tree but the figure, or bush or whatever it is, has vanished. And she's on her feet again, switch blade returned to its booted home and back straightened.

Her eyes focus again as the uniformed guard switches with another. A fair haired guard arrives, who takes refuge inside the small hut, propping his feet up on the table and switching on the small TV. After what only seems like a few seconds, the guards head tilts back revealing his opened mouth and closed eyes.

Anger and frustration burns through her brain. Her brows rise in shock, but she isn't concerned by her reaction. LA's done nothing but give her surprises ever since she got to the goddamn place.

The Latina shakes her head and bends down to pick up a handful of mud. She rubs it across her body, staining her shirt and marking her skin. Her hair is next, which she ruffles up, only finishing when she feels a few satisfying knots in the back. The hobo effect.

Her legs are leading her over the fence, and she jumps down to pavement level with a graceful landing and heads towards the gate before her mind can figure out what her body's doing. She stops short as she reaches the hut and stands in the doorway, her fingers tearing a small rip at the base of her shirt for added effect.

The guard jumps up, his eyes still hooded from his 'nap' and straightens his tie, wiping the small amount of drool off his chin with the back of his hand.

"Beg your pardon. Had a long night last night," he mutters, while his pale grey eyes scan over the Latina's attire.

Bullshit. He's just a lazy fuck.

Her brain takes note of the disapproval masking his face she smiles, quirking an eyebrow. "I'm Maria Rodriguez," she says, her voice tinted with a strong Spanish accent. "Miss Pierce has requested I come as soon as possible. Apologies for my appearance as I've just come from my other job."

"Of course," the guard replies, reaching behind him and pressing a button which causes a large bang and the silver gates to slowly open.

What a joke. Breaking in is just too fucking easy.

Santana represses the urge to slap the guard silly and feigns a smile. "Gracias, good Sir."

Without another question, she walks up the driveway and into the forest, where the cut-through passage to the house is located. In two minutes, the dolphin fountained round-a-bout is standing dauntingly tall in front of her and she shakes her head at its ridiculous shape.

And then there's Brittany to her left, giggling and brushing her palm against the front of the young, dorky man's name she knows to be Artie. Douchebag.

A wave of steaming hot jealousy pours through her body, and she almost doesn't catch it as it bubbles at the back of her throat. Fucking Artie. His fucking anorexic model shaped body and fucking stupid thick rimmed glasses. In Brittany's stupidly large mansion. The one she wouldn't fucking have if she'd stayed with Santana.

She has to clench her fists and breathe quickly and heavily to suppress the urge burning through her calf muscles, screaming at her to run over and slap the flirtatious smile off his face into last year. But she knows she has no right. Brittany left _her_. Not the other way around. Brittany can do whatever or whoever the hell she wants. And Santana can't do a single fucking thing.

Blue eyes meet brown just for a second, and Santana turns away. Brittany can't manipulate her with her incredibly distracting eyes. She can't apologize from across the yard with a single glance. It's not fucking fair.

Santana's feet are leading her towards the pool house where she knows a few shots of vodka with her name on it are waiting, before she can even choose to do so. The whole way she feels the familiar blue eyed burn etching itself into the back of her mind.

It's not fucking fair.

* * *

><p>"Right, we need to check the perimeter. Karofsky, who's on your security team here?"<p>

"Puckerman, Azimio, Anderson and Qu-"

Santana's head snaps up, and she looks quizzically at Karofsky from across the security office's table. It's just them inside the small, smoky dark room, filled with a few metal shelves and a table situated in the center.

"Anderson?"

Karl Anderson was an officer in her unit. He was shot during a routine patrol, and before they could even get him to the medic he died due to blood loss. It can't be him. She knows that. But she winces anyway, before looking up as the bulky man stares at her with an unreadable expression. He probably thinks she's crazy. Not that she cares.

"Yes. Blaine Anderson."

"Oh." The tiniest glimmer of hope singes out in the single word. It's a ridiculous thought. But she still, just doesn't care.

Karofsky leans his elbows onto the table, pushing one of the folders in front of her onto the floor. Probably on purpose. Asshole.

"Do you know him?" he asks, his voice softer than usual.

Santana shakes her head and leans off the side to pick it up. Her back twinges painfully. She really needs to keep up her muscle workouts. "No, I just thought he might be related to one of my old colleagues."

He's looking at Santana like she's just arrived off a mental institute, wondering if he needs to dial the asylum to report a missing patient.

"There's more than just one family with the last name Anderson, Lopez," he grunts in response.

Santana creates a low, throat-vibrating noise that almost resembles a growl, and his eyes widen comically. "But you should ask Blaine anyway."

"Ask me what?"

A short man with bushy eyebrows and heavily gelled black hair is standing behind her. Did he swim here? A small laugh almost escapes her chest but her military training snaps in and suddenly she's on her feet with an arm stretched out in front of her. The faint scratching of a chair on concrete catches her ear but she ignores it, knowing it's only Karofsky on the phone, by the sound of it.

"Maria Rodriguez."

The man smiles, one bushy eyebrow raising. "Nice to meet you. I'm Blaine Anderson."

Santana smiles in return and heads to the corner of the room, where she spots another chair. By the time she returns, Blaine has taken her seat so she sidles up beside him, and reaches across the table to grab her steaming cup of coffee.

She glances up to see Karofsky muttering on the phone unintelligibly on the far side of the office, one hand covering his mouth as if he's a teenage girl trading secrets with the receiver.

He leans over until his lips are at the Latina's ears. "Sorry, Karofsky told me to take your seat. Pretty sure he's trying to get everyone to not like you."

It almost sounds like an elementary school trick, but Santana's not surprised. "I gathered."

Blaine cocks his head to the side. "You did?"

"I met Azimio earlier," she reasons, pursing her lips and shrugging her shoulders as her arms cross.

"Ah, _Azimio._ Don't worry about him, he's a homophobic ass."

Santana turns her head to look into sparkling eyes, which really are quite bright. She quirks an eyebrow, silently questioning his statement when she glances at his seated position; one leg crossed femininely over the other and both arms crossed lazily on one thigh. She immediately zooms into his perfectly manicured nails and too-neat attire, taking note of the strange smoothness of his lower ankle, shown off by ironed chinos. Then it clicks.

"Anyway, I'm pretty sure Karofsky has a thing for Azimio anyway. The way he looks at him sometimes reminds me of a lost puppy who just found a new home."

Santana scoffs, but Blaine continues. "It's quite endearing. Really, it is. Well until he catches you looking at him, then he starts snapping at you like you just walked in on him watching porn."

A disbelieving laugh escapes her lips and Blaine shuffles in his seat while Santana can feel his eyes studying her. She picks up her steaming coffee and blows into it to cool it down. After taking a tentative sip, she knows Blaine's finished with his inspection.

"At least Kurt and I won't be fighting him alone," he murmurs.

Santana smiles Blaine's unspoken recognition of her sexuality, and momentarily ponders on the name 'Kurt', when the chauffeur from a few days ago snaps into her brain. "You and Kurt are together?"

Blaine's eyes flicker back to her and he nods. "We are."

"I'm sure you make a lovely couple."

He shrugs and grins. "We do."

They both look at each other for a long moment before chuckling in sync at Blaine's modesty towards his relationship with Kurt. A snapping sound breaks them out of their laughing fit and her eyes dart to Karofsky, who's strolling back to the table.

"Go laugh somewhere else, Tinkerbelle. Don't want your fairy dust sprinkled around the room," Karofsky spits, pure disgust dropping off every word.

She almost hisses something explicit in response, but she finds him staring at Blaine with a half-disgusted, half-ashamed expression on his face. The shorter man laughs and bounces his leg up and down above his other, in a manner that almost pastes rainbows over his head. Santana clenches her fist at the way Karofsky hates on Blaine's obvious sexuality, and she suppresses the urge to lash out.

"Well it could do with some brightening up," he retorts, a half-smile, half-smirk pasted on his face.

Karofsky tightens his fist, his knuckles whitening against his skin painfully so, and Santana feels her body hovering to the edge of the seat, legs coiled like a spring, and ready to pounce.

"Karofsky!"

Her body deflates and she sees Quinn standing at the doorway just behind her. Hazel eyes flicker between the two men, as if she's trying to figure out what's going on and how she's going to diffuse the situation. A silence settles around the room, and Quinn wanders in with her hands clasped behind her like a headmistress would do in a 19th century English classroom.

"Enough."

Apparently Quinn's in control here.

The larger man immediately slumps into the chair crosses his arm like a four year old does when he's told 'no ice cream'. Santana scoffs and turns her attention back to the table where she scans over several folders. She picks up one labeled 'camera locations' and flips it open.

The pale yellow file contains one piece of lined paper, with a few lines scribbled on it in loopy, black handwriting. The writing notifies the reader of three cameras, two at the front gate and one in the dolphin fountain. Her eyes flicker up to the top corner where the paper is dated '16th January 2012'. Four years ago. Santana can feel the thousands of jobs piling inside her brain.

She raises both eyebrows and looks across the table to Karofsky. "You only have _three_ four year old cameras plotted around the premises and you're surprised someone snuck into the house without being noticed?"

Quinn brings a seat to the table and perches on it, leaning her forearms onto the table as she examines the piece of paper in front of Santana.

"It's enough."

"It won't happen again, we just need to be on higher alert," Blaine interjects, crossing his arms.

Santana shakes her head. "No, we need some high security here. Otherwise God knows what's going to come next. First semen on the bed sheets, next blood on the floorboards with your head on it."

Images of Blaine headless snap into her brain and she flinches, despite just meeting the man. She likes him already.

"I agree, Santana," Quinn says while nodding in approval of her idea. Santana almost lets a smug grin paste her face as she knows the blonde runs the show around here. So she's already won.

Blaine furrows his brows and cocks his head to the side. "Santana?"

Santana knows her game is up. But she also knows she's played it for long enough and it's hard evidence that'll work on her side.

"Yes…" Quinn says slow, gesturing to the Latina. "Santana Lopez."

The shorter man straightens up and glances to the Latina with a quizzical, confused expression. "She told me her name was Maria Rodriguez."

When Santana is finally over the smugness of her genius plan, she realizes all eyes are on her. Quinn's staring at her expectantly because she doesn't know about Santana's plan, which reminds her, damn, she needs to give the blonde her 'gap in the fence' notes.

"See how easy it is? Earlier I approached the gates, looking like I'd just been dragged through a hedge backwards, with just Bri-," she swallows audibly, "Miss Pierce's name. And the guard _still_ let me waltz right in. Just now I told Blaine my name was Maria Rodriguez, and he didn't even question it, despite knowing he's never met me before."

They're all dumbfounded. Karofsky looks a little confused, Quinn's shocked, and Blaine looks impressed. So she nods, happily pleased by her reactions and she points to the several empty folders on the table.

"All of this… this is a pathetic excuse for security. For all we know, someone could be walking around this place with a fake name and claiming to have a job here while secretly sneaking into Miss Pierce's bedroom and getting their rocks off to one of her thongs."

A memory of Santana flicking one of Brittany's thongs across her dorm clouds her mind, but when the jolt of almost unbearable pain seers straight through her heart, she shakes it off, trying to suppress the growing ache that settles in her gut.

A hand is placed over her own, and she traces up the limb to find Blaine smiling at her. She turns her gaze upwards when she sees Karofsky stand up. He slams his fists on the table top, jolting Blaine and Quinn about half a foot out of their chairs.

"Are you serious? Is that possible?" he half-yells, panic lacing his tone.

Why is she not surprised that he's a pussy? Santana shakes her head. "It's definitely a possibility. I've done a background check on all of the regular people here, and so far, all clear. But for all we know, someone could walk onto the grounds claiming to be a backup dancer and actually have the intention of psyching her out again."

Karofsky slowly sits back down again, shock and fear consuming his expression. She glances around to see Quinn and Blaine mimicking him and her lips curl upwards into a small, smug smile.

"Exactly, so now do you think it's enough?" she directs her question to Karofsky and Blaine who shake their heads. "Thought not. Now we need to get some _real_ security around here. Is everyone in agreement here?"

Her voice is more demanding than she expected. But she ignores the quizzical stare from Quinn and picks up the pen that the blonde's spinning between her index and forefinger before scribbling down 'camera locations' on the back of the piece of paper.

"Quinn, I need you to go and type this up." Quinn takes the piece of paper, and her eyes widen as they scan the page from side to side. "Since you're probably the most computer literate person here."

The blonde nods and Santana turns her attention to Karofsky and Blaine. "And we're going to talk security."

* * *

><p>It's 9 P.M. when Santana is being led into the dingy pits of the basement, with Karofsky in front and Blaine hanging slightly behind. It looks like something out of a scary movie. The dim, low hanging lights, the crumbling brick walls and large, rotting metal gates on either side. Karofsky takes out a bunch of keys, where he locates one and twists it into the lock of a gate in front of them. One Santana's only just become aware of.<p>

"This is the armory," Karofsky announces as they step into a tall, darker room.

None of them say and word as Santana examines the room. There are daunting, metal shelves covering the left and right walls and a small safe in the back that looks like it hasn't been touched in years. There's a small dead rat rotting in the corner, and Santana knows if it wasn't for the years of seeing her teammates collapse with a bullet lodged in their brain, she'd have to do some serious control of her gag reflex.

She glances at the almost-empty shelves, where there are a few empty paint cans and a small cardboard box, clad with tiny holes, probably created by the rats or some other critter. Her eyebrow raises and she runs a finger along one of the shelves. When she looks at it, her finger is covered in a thick layer of dust. Her eyes scan the room, and settle on the safe in the back. It's a small black box, literally. To say it's a safe is probably a stretch too far.

"This is it?"

Karofsky nods. "Well what the hell were you expecting? This isn't the Army, Lopez. All we got is a few guns in that safe."

Santana follows the sausage like forefinger belonging to Karofsky and heads towards the safe, where she crouches and fiddles with the lock, which complies with her low expectation as it's only guarded by a key lock.

"But the last Head of Security didn't leave the key so we haven't actually seen if anything's in there," Blaine adds, heading towards the safe.

Karofsky's glaring at the smaller man, his eyes are narrowed and teeth bared. There's something dark behind his eyes; something dangerous. But Santana shakes it off, passing it off to be paranoia and reaches into her hair, where she finds two bobby pins.

Blaine moves beside the brunette and bends down to her level, hiking his pant legs up in the process. "You're going to pick the lock?"

Santana nods, because surely that's obvious. It's not like she's going to start fiddling with her hair. She's obviously not that kind of girl.

Karofsky steps in, barging the shorter man aside and takes his place. "We've all tried to get into it. There's no use in even trying. _I've_ picked thousands of locks but even this one just won't budge."

Within a second of slipping the pins into the lock, the door freely swings open and she turns around with a smirk on her face. "You were saying?"

Karofsky narrows his eyes. "H-how did you know how to do that?"

Santana shrugs and turns her attention back to the safe. She knows the answer, and the words, _because my dad was an alcoholic and would always forget his keys, or lose them from being so damn drunk that I had to learn how to break into my own house otherwise I'd be sleeping on the park bench, which I've done more than a twelve year old should've done_, lingers on the tip of her tongue, but she bites down and shrugs once more. "Just do."

Blaine seems to sense the tension and steps forward, bending down next to the Latina and nudging her shoulder with his own. "So what we got?"

She reaches inside and brings out a small bag, which it's handle breaks due to age, and reveals two 9mm pistols which land on the floor with a large thud. Karofsky reaches forward and picks one up, twisting it in his hand.

"Two lousy pistols?" he mutters. "Is that it?"

They're two fucking guns. Loaded. Santana knows Karofsky carries around pepper spray, and he finds that threatening, so she has no idea why he's complaining about this.

Santana turns. "I took down a maniac wielding an AK-47 with just a switchblade. Trust me, this is enough to take down one sick psycho."

She watches as surprise shades behind the bulky man's eyes and she smiles smugly before turning back to the remaining gun and checking the magazine for bullets. Her fingers work with military experience while her eyes are still glaring down Karofsky.

"But even so, I think we should get a few more. Just in case," he adds, fear lacing his tone. Santana feels the satisfaction spread through her body, but then she remembers that despite Karofsky being a complete douchebag, he actually has a point.

So she nods and says, "You know, I think I'm actually going to have to agree with you on this."

Karofsky smiles and stands, before offering out a hand to help her up. She accepts and throws in quick thanks, before they both start talking about weaponry with Blaine rolling his eyes at their quips at each other every now and then.

* * *

><p>Two days later, it's 6 P.M. and Santana is standing in the yard in front of the dolphin shaped fountain with her arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed as she studies her new security adjustments to the house.<p>

It's been a _long_ two days, with only around two or three hours sleep combined. She rubs her eyes and shoves her hand into her pocket, where she finds the note pad she was scribbling on. She grabs it and flips it open, going through the check list of her newly made additions to the house.

Her eyes find the seventeen security cameras darted outside the front, which don't include the various other thirty or so inside the house and around the back. There's one down by the pool house, but since Santana's staying there, she reasons there's not much point in buffing up that area, security wise.

The next thing that catches her eye is the several new security guards, armed with pistols and police-like batons, standing outside the front door. She knows there's another three by the front gate, which she _personally_ trained and threatened with their life to stay awake and actually do their job - as well as adding a few hidden cameras to make sure of it. She chuckles inwardly at the thought of them searching for the cameras, seeing as they don't know the locations and constantly worrying about them being watched.

Kurt walks up beside the Latina and taps her on the shoulder, to which she turns around and feigns a smile. "Hey Santana."

"Hummel," she grunts in response, still fully focused on the check list as she scans the area for each point.

"Is everything up to date with the security?"

Santana quirks a brow, suddenly put off by the happy demeanor that _constantly_ radiates from the chauffeur. "Yes. Just going through the checklist." She bites down the urge to say 'sir', as she's accustomed to doing so. "Quite busy, though."

She inwardly kicks herself at her tone, knowing it's sharper than intended, but she's in military mode and her caring for other people's emotions is definitely at the bottom of her list.

The man body turns rigid at her tone, just like she expected. Kurt shuffles away from her slowly. "Oh, right. I'll just leave you to it."

Santana nods and returns to her note pad where she sees the next point and grimaces. It's not her most dreaded task to do, but it's definitely in the top five. She turns to see the chauffeur's retreating form and starts into a slow jog up beside him.

"Hummel?" she calls, catching his attention.

Kurt turns and waits expectantly a few feet in front of the Latina. When Santana catches up, she straightens and shoves her notepad back in her pocket. "As one of my security requirements, I'm going to teach you how to drive."

The man raises an eyebrow and stares incredulously at Santana who only mimics his expression in response. "I know how to drive Santana, I'm a _chauffeur._"

Santana shakes her head. "No, Hummel. I'm talking about _real_ driving."

"Right. Because I'm _fake_ driving."

The Latina almost laughs at the man's sarcasm, but instead remains professional and pushes her chest out. "I mean the kind that will ensure you escape with your life in a shoot-out."

Kurt turns his head uninterestingly and crosses one arm across his chest, while nibbling on the nail of his other hand. Santana narrows her eyes and suppresses the annoyance burning in her chest as she eyes him not-so-subtly staring at Blaine's butt from across the front yard. She knows how to pull his strings; she knows how to pull most people's strings and bargain to get the ball in her court. It probably has to do with the military, considering eighty five percent of her life skills have been learned and developed by the Army.

"The kind that'll save Miss Pierce's life, and get you enough money to book one hell of a holiday for you and Blaine, or a honeymoon if it comes to that," Santana adds in, catching the chauffeur's eyes.

That caught his attention. She reads the silent acceptance but is put off by the footsteps she hears. They make their way from behind her and soon after, Santana hears a soft, "Hey."

Kurt's eyes widen as they flicker between the two figures and she doesn't even need to turn around to know who it is. It's a strange reaction, and makes Santana wonder if he knows about her and Brittany's past. Shit, does anyone know? She turns, and backs away to stand by Kurt's side obediently.

"Hey San," Brittany says in that voice that makes Santana feel about two inches tall.

It's the voice that always used to grab her and make her forgive the blonde for any argument. It's the voice that could make her forget everything, and cause her anger to disappear. But right now, it just does nothing but fuel the anger. Brittany can't talk to her like that anymore; she has no right to. She wants to lash out, scream at the blonde and tell her it's not her place, that she has no fucking right to talk to her like that anymore.

But instead, she settles for biting her tongue. "Miss Pierce."

"So, what can we do to help you, Britt?" Kurt interjects as he bounces up and down in his step a little too enthusiastically.

Santana can hear the informality in his voice, and she knows that despite being an employee of Brittany's, Kurt's more like a friend that helps out. Just like everyone else: Quinn, Puck. They're friends who happen to work for Brittany, they're not employees.

And that makes pain cut straight through Santana's heart. She knows Quinn hired her for this reason. Brittany was just too good of a god damn person to treat her employee's like employees, and so somewhere along the line the blonde would try to befriend her again. Quinn fucking knew that, and still fucking hired her. Even after everything. Fuck Quinn Fabray.

"I was actually just wondering if I could talk to Santana," Brittany answers with a smile.

But Santana can hear the sadness laced with it and see it shade behind her ocean blue eyes. She clenches her fist at the way it settles in her gut and suddenly she's angry. She shouldn't feel this way; she shouldn't _have_ to feel this fucking way. She did fuck everything up, _Brittany_ did wrong. Not her. It's not fucking fair.

"Of course, Britt. I'll just be over in the garage, Santana, whenever you're ready."

Santana nods and smiles lightly, and her eyes watch as the man walks away, a slight skip in his step that just creates rainbows. She's suddenly increasingly aware of her situation, and just how close Brittany is to her. Her legs step back, distancing herself from the blonde as her throat thickens.

"Ready for what?" Brittany asks, taking a step towards Santana.

She almost trips over the crooked pavestone as she steps backwards on instinct. "Driving. I'm teaching him how to drive."

Brittany cocks her head to the side, the way she always used to fucking do when she didn't understand something. Santana tries to keep her eyes away, knowing just how adorable that confused face could be and how it could probably produce a pathetic mess out of the military-trained woman. Her eyes search the courtyard, looking at everything that isn't tall, blonde and really, _really _fucking gorgeous.

She spots Artie across the fountain, whose staring at her intently with dark, narrowed eyes. She could spot that burning jealousy from anywhere - mostly because she'd experienced it herself. And Santana knew just how furious she used to get because Brittany was always so fucking touchy, and oblivious to the reactions to whomever she touched. It was always the same thing, Santana getting jealous because the blonde just didn't see the way she was stared at whenever they were out together as a couple. Her stomach sinks slightly as she puts two-and-two together. Shit, are Brittany and Artie dating?

"But he already knows how to drive," Brittany says softly, in that same goddamn fucking voice that just spews on the acidic fury burning in Santana's stomach. She just can't fucking do that anymore. "He's a chauffeur," Brittany continues. "He drives me around."

Her hands are starting to cramp in rejection to the clenched fists. "Advanced driving."

"Oh, right."

Brittany bites down on the corner of her lip, and plays with the hem of her shirt. One of the things she used to do when she wanted to say something but didn't know if Santana wanted to hear it.

"So how have you been?" Brittany asks, her eyes searching Santana's intently. Yep, she was right. She didn't want to hear Brittany's attempt at small talk.

She runs her tongue along her teeth, and suppresses the initial words going somewhere along the lines of _terrible_, _I love you_, and _please take me back_ and she feigns a smile. "Fine."

The blonde's head nods, but her face looks more like it's calling out Santana's bullshit. Santana pretends not to see, knowing Brittany could see through her lies and probably pry any piece of information out with those piercing blue eyes. She digs her hands deep into her pockets and rocks onto the balls of her feet expectantly.

"Good. I'm glad."

Sure. She finds Kurt looking over at her, and by the time she turns back, Artie's standing by Brittany's side with one arm draped over the blonde's shoulder. Another wave of hot jealousy pours through her, and sizzles out at her fingertips where she clenches her fists once more.

"Santana, this is Artie," Brittany starts, motioning to the male pressed up against her. "Artie, this is Santana."

"Hey, Samantha right?" Artie says smugly. She doesn't even meet Brittany's searching eyes, knowing Brittany is still fucking oblivious as ever, and can't see the way Artie's looking at her, no, _drooling_ over her, in his peripheral vision. And how he quite obviously knows her actual name, but tries to play it cool.

"Santana," she deadpans, tearing her burning eyes away from Artie and over to Kurt as she suppresses the urge to punch something, preferably Artie. "I've gotta go. Kurt's waiting."

She brushes past Brittany and towards the garage, hands deep in her pockets, and almost misses the quiet, "Okay, bye San," Brittany calls out in response.

* * *

><p>"<em>Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?" Santana asked as she approached Brittany's table, one hip cocked up against the side of the booth.<em>

_Santana had just come from a dinner with her lawyer about sorting out her father's will, and left the dinner a hell of a lot richer. Brittany glanced up, her cerulean orbs sparkling as they scanned up the Latina's tight red dress-covered body. She grinned and met Santana's brown eyes. "Hm, I'm not sure."_

_She took a seat next to the blonde and ran her hand up the dancers jean cladded thigh. "Why's that, beautiful?"_

"_I'm actually waiting for my girlfriend."_

_The Latina smiled. "Hm, well she must be one lucky girl."_

_Brittany leaned in and hovered about an inch away from Santana's lips. "She is. But we gotta get out of here quickly; she'll definitely go all Lima Heights on you if she catches us talking."_

_She smiled and closed the gap, pressing her lips gently to Brittany's and ran her hands higher up the blonde's body, settling on her hip. She felt Brittany smile into the kiss as her tongue flicked against the dancers soft lips. A small moan escaped her lips and she pulled back from a giggling blonde._

"_Hey baby."_

_Brittany laced their fingers together. "Hey beautiful."_

_Santana's heart fluttered and Brittany cocked her head to the side, scrunching her nose as the Latina felt her cheeks flush. "You're cute."_

_She raised an eyebrow at the blonde. "Cute? Really, Britt?"_

_A low, throaty chuckle escaped Brittany's mouth. Santana licked her lips and pressed a kiss to the blonde's cheek. "I'll go get us some drinks," she whispered into the dancer's ear, nibbling softly at the earlobe._

_Santana stood from the booth and headed over to the bar where she ordered a vodka and cranberry for Brittany and a JD on the rocks for herself. As she leant against the bar, her eyes immediately returned to the blonde who was sitting in the booth… with a man sitting next to her._

_She immediately grimaced and narrowed her eyes. Who the hell was that? The bartender handed over the drinks and she paid with a ten dollar bill, telling him to keep the change and heading back to the booth._

_On her way back she watched the unknown man slide his arm to rest it behind Brittany's head on the back of the booth and shuffle closer. The blonde did nothing but giggle, and swat at his arm as he murmured something unintelligible._

_Santana gripped the glasses tighter, hoping her sheer strength wouldn't crack them as the man reached over and brushed a piece of hair behind Brittany's ear. He was making a move. Why the fuck isn't she pushing him away? He's practically fucking drooling over her and she isn't doing a fucking thing!_

_She cleared her throat as she approached the booth. Brittany's head snapped up and she grinned, before allowing her face to fall into a quizzical expression. The man obviously missed the Latina's features harden and moved closer._

"_Do you mind?" Santana hissed, putting the drinks down and gesturing to his seat._

_Brittany tilted her head to the side. "San."_

"_No, I don't actually."_

_The Latina slid into the booth seat opposite the blonde and slid around, grasping Brittany's side and tugging it towards her. The man raised an eyebrow as his eyes flickered to her tightening grip on Brittany's waist._

"_San, this is Scott. He's in my contemporary dance class."_

_Santana scoffed. "Awesome," she said sarcastically._

_Scott slid out from the booth and stood, grabbing his pint of beer and sipping on it gently. "I've gotta get back to my friends."_

"_Yeah, you do that," she snapped out, her voice dripping with venom._

"_What the hell, San?"_

_She turned incredulously. Of course, Brittany was pissed. Despite getting leered at and practically drooled over by some guy she fucking knew from her stupid fucking contemporary dance class, she was annoyed at Santana. Not at the fucking guy with ridiculously toned arms and charming smile that was making a move on her, despite her having a girlfriend. She took a sip of her drink, hopefully Brittany would drop it._

"_Santana," Brittany chastised, glancing between Santana and her drink. "What was that?"_

_Usually when the blonde used that voice, her facial features would harden and it would somehow make her look even more adorable than usual. However, Santana tries not to look at her, knowing the chances of getting turned on by an angry Brittany are very high, and that wouldn't help the situation._

"_Nothing," she said sarcastically, eyes trained on anything that wasn't Brittany. "Absolutely nothing."_

_Brittany grabbed her elbow, jolting her drink so some of the liquid slipped over the top. "Santana!"_

_She turned, clenching her jaw. For a millisecond, literally a millisecond, the thought of walking out crossed her mind. But then she looked over to Scott and who he was looking at. Brittany was staring at her, anger and expectation sketched over her face, but Scott? Scott was gazing at Brittany from across the bar, eyes shaded with lust and arousal and possibly in need of a very cold shower. And she lost it._

"_Are you really that oblivious Brittany? He's practically fucking drooling over you and touching you and you don't do a fucking thing! Anyone would think you like the extra attention," she spat, enjoying the way Scott's eyes widened comically at hearing her scream, almost as if he was scared._

_Brittany's face fell, her expression contorted with anger and hurt. Santana almost immediately regretted what she said, but she told herself she didn't care. She had pride, and she sure as hell wasn't going to lose to that face because she told the truth. Even if it was Brittany._

"_Is that really what you think?" Brittany demanded, but Santana heard the hurt lacing it, and grimaced at the way it left the guilt to settle in her gut. "Maybe I'm just too stupid to notice it."_

_What the hell? She didn't mean that at all. Her face fell into a shocked expression immediately, and she suddenly hated the fact she could feel Scott watching them. The blonde stood up, grabbed her purse and before turning and gazing down at the brunette with fury burning in her usually calm eyes._

"_Call me when you grow up, Santana."_

_And then she walked out._

* * *

><p><em>Two hours later, Santana discovered angry sex. Wow.<em>

* * *

><p><em>An hour after that, she found out make-up sex was fucking mind blowing.<em>

* * *

><p>It's 9 P.M. when Santana and Kurt finally arrive back in the garage after two and half hours of stunt driving lessons. One hour spent showing Kurt how to perform a handbrake turn, a parallel spin parking job, and a J turn in, and the next two watching him practicing the maneuvers.<p>

She gets out the driver's side and shuts the door as Kurt does the same. The black Sedan clicks as she locks it and they both exit, with Santana patting him on the shoulder awkwardly.

"Well done Kurt, you're learning a hell of a lot quicker than anyone else I've taught," Santana says genuinely, flexing her hand after retracting it, still feeling the muscles tighten from her injury.

Kurt's eyes flicker to her hand and back up to her eyes, and she sees the shock shading behind his eyes. She assumes he's surprised that she's being nice to him as she overheard two dancers saying Karofsky's going around telling everyone she's a bitch. She doesn't care though, she _is_ a bitch.

"Thanks Santana, I know I still haven't got it down completely, but if I practice I think I'll get there," he replies, nodding his head appreciatively as they approach the safe box hanging on the wall near the exit.

Santana smiles, _actually_ smiles and reaches into the box, placing the keys on one of the spare hooks before turning back to the man, "Definitely."

"Then I'll be ready for Britt's show."

She crooks an eyebrow. "She's got a show?"

They exit the garage and head towards the marble steps. "Uh, yeah, didn't Karofsky tell you? He's in charge of Britt's transport."

Karofsky. Of course. That's why she doesn't know. "No, he didn't."

Kurt stops at the base of the step and climbs a single one, before looking back at the Latina. "Well it's Thursday and we need to be at Marbella's by seven, which means leaving at six, but I'm not sure what it entails for you. Talk to Q about it. I'm just a driver."

She nods, exchanges quick "goodbyes" with the man and turns away, hands in her pockets as she heads towards the pool house. Another lonely, sleepless night. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

Well, that's what she thinks until she sees the envelope lodged in between the entrance of the pool house, with _Lopez_ scribbled on the front in thick black marker.


	7. chapter six

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Six]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>Just above 10k

* * *

><p>Santana stands at the door, face expressionless and fists clenched. Her heart is beating fast against her ribcage and she lifts her hand, taking the envelope between her fingers. She hopes it's just a coincidence, that it's just Quinn writing her something and using her last name to address her. She wishes and prays that since coming here and becoming 'the bodyguard', the unknown psycho hasn't dared to write any letters due to the increased fear of enhanced security around the Pierce residence. But deep down, Santana knows she's wrong.<p>

She swallows thickly and exhales in soft pants before pulling back the flap and tugging out its contents. It's a small piece of card, and she flips it over, revealing five words cut out from what she can only assume used to be newspaper articles, and placed intricately in the center. Santana narrows her eyes and looks back to the front of the envelope, just to make sure it's addressed to her before focusing on the lettering.

The memories of the past few years flash through her mind, and then slow down as they near the actual date. She thinks back to her previous actions and doings during the day and then it clicks. The security cameras.

Santana breathes out through her nose and feels sheer panic flood through her. The pool house is quiet, eerily so and she immediately inhales deeply, an unfamiliar scent invading her nostrils. It's not unpleasant, but it still causes her to wince and she palms the gun tucked underneath her right arm in the holster. She tries not to let the paranoia get to her, but she can't help it.

She looks towards the living room and sees her laptop on the coffee table, and forgets about the possibility of the intruder as she heads towards it, taking refuge on the sofa with the computer on her lap. With a single click, the screen switches on and she logs into the camera program in the start menu. A few seconds later, and she sees the outside of the pool house up in the top right hand corner, with the view of the mansion's entrance in the bottom right.

Another click and she hovers over the history, scanning back to the 5:45 P.M., the last time she was present in the pool house. She clicks on the fast forward button, and soon enough the minutes are going by as if their seconds, and there's the occasional bird or animal making itself present, and the trees and bushes sway incredibly quickly, but apart from that, there's nothing out of the ordinary.

However when it reaches 8 P.M., she watches as a figure appears on screen, walking up to the pool house and disappearing under the bottom left hand side of the screen. She narrows her eyes, and leans forward, her elbows digging into her thighs as she presses her face closer towards the screen. Her heart flutters as the figure returns and paces back and forth, fiddling with the hem of their shirt nervously and biting on their bottom lip. Unbelievably adorable habits that Santana has always loved, ever since seeing them years ago, and still does. Damn it.

It's Brittany.

The urge to sprint out of the house and ask Brittany what she wanted burns through her muscles, but she suppresses them and focuses on the task at hand. She presses play once more, and instead of the dancer pacing back and forth crazily, feet moving a mile a minute, it's down to regular speed and Brittany's still walking.

Santana can't prevent the smile that creeps up on her face and she clenches her jaw, wishing Brittany didn't have this damn effect on her. After about five minutes, Brittany looks back to the door with one final longing glance and heads the opposite way, back towards the house. She assumes that Brittany wanted something, and noticed the lack of Santana's presence and left. But inside, she hopes its more.

But then she sees it. She sees the hooded figure clad all in black and creeping close to the in the very corner of the screen. It's obvious the stranger knows of the camera locations, as the figures presses tightly against the wall, trying best not to get caught on screen. Santana gulps, and watches as the figure disappears in the bottom left hand corner, just where Brittany was seconds ago…

Oh shit.

Brittany was right there. Brittany was right fucking there, alone, and Santana wasn't there to protect her. Fuck. She could've been attacked; she could've been kil-… No. She doesn't want to think about it. But she has too. Brittany was right there, and if she'd been injured, it would've been Santana's fault, and would've weighed ten thousand tons on her conscience as well as tugged agonizingly on her already fragile heart.

Her heart twists painfully and she bites down, catching her cheek in the process. She ignores the throbbing pain, too focused on the fact the figure cocks their head to the side as they stand in front of the camera and points backwards towards where Brittany's retreating form was headed less than a minute ago. Anger swells inside her chest and she jolts up from the sofa, fists clenched tightly and healing-knife wound rejecting the pressure. But she can't focus. Her vision is blurry as the figure waves and creeps off back towards the way that they came.

Santana knows now. She knows she doesn't have a choice. She's going to protect Brittany. She's going to protect that damn girl as if her life depends on it, because, if she's honest, it _does_. Her life depends on Brittany's safety. And she doesn't want to _have_ to live without the blonde again, there mere thought of Brittany getting hurt… Just, urgh, it's incomprehensible. She's lived without her once; she lived two long, excruciatingly fucking painful years, and now doesn't want to live anymore without her, even if her only remaining place in the blonde's life is as her bodyguard.

* * *

><p>The next day Quinn informs Santana via a yellow post-it note stuck to her front door, saying Brittany is teaching a special dance class in West Hollywood at 3 P.M.<p>

Santana walks into the mansion, opening it using the key card system that she had installed, and heads for the living room. She realizes the black and white blinds have disappeared and the room is no longer crowded with stuck-up dancers sneering at her. Thank God for that.

The sofa's still in the middle, but there's a large television placed in front of it with shelves covering the wall behind, packed full of DVD's. She wanders in and runs her fingertips along the spines, taking note of the amount of Disney films. Her heart flutters momentarily, but then seizes painfully as an unwanted memory of snuggling with Brittany, watching a marathon of those movies when they got snowed in one winter, races through her mind.

She spins around and observes the scene, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. The room is completely opposite to Brittany's dorm back in college or house in Lima. And her heart can't help but falter a little bit at the thought that maybe Brittany has changed just as much as her house.

Brittany's dorm was always messy, and way too small for Santana's liking, but it was just so _Brittany_. It had little duck ornaments and goddamn fluffy toys scattered all over the place, with half-eaten breakfast bars that Brittany always said _tasted boring after the first two bites_. She always thought it was ridiculous that the blonde still bought the damn bars, but Brittany was nothing if not insistent.

But this room, this room is just so… formal. And _un-Brittany._ There aren't gossip magazines all over the place, or uneaten pieces of food, or Britt's dance uniform lying on the floor. There's nothing decorative like statuettes or random paintings. Apart from the obvious furniture that a living room usually had, such as a TV, a sofa, DVD's… there's nothing. Literally nothing that shows the girl Santana fell in love with. And it hurts.

Santana sighs, but her eyes suddenly catch something lodged in between the _Lady and the Tramp_ and _Beauty and the Beast_ DVD. Her fingers bend awkwardly as she twists the object out. It's small, flat, and lightweight. Like a piece of paper or a photo; something along those lines. Her lips purse as she blows the dust off of it, and lying before her is a picture of her and Brittany.

It's Santana's favorite photo of the two, and it showed everything that ever transpired between them. Santana's looking at Brittany with her head cocked to the side, and lips curved slightly into an adoring smile. Brittany's grinning widely, but her eyes are looking at Santana as she's faced towards the lens.

She remembers the way the blonde dragged her into the photo booth in the mall after a long day of shopping. Well, if Brittany literally dragging Santana around the mall could be classed as shopping. Brittany had begged for a photo that they couldn't fuck up, because they'd attempted before. Somehow she'd always found a way of ruining the photo, whether that was jumping out the way, pushing her hand up to the lens, or pulling a rather unattractive face.

Of course she'd given in, because well, what Brittany wanted, Brittany got. She hadn't even bothered protesting as Brittany shoved her on the stool and pounced onto her lap. It was the last photo that was taken that session, and a complete surprise as the booth said only three photos were taken in one session. The fourth, this picture, was taken by chance and neither of them had been posing.

She feels a grin coming on that she can't stop, because that photo was the most genuine one she'd ever seen. Some photographers took hours trying to capture emotion by trying different lighting and different poses, but all she knew was that the most genuine emotion could be taken when the photo wasn't expected. She hadn't liked it all that much at first, but after Brittany decided to show everyone, and everyone commented on the obvious love emanating between the two, she started seeing what everyone meant.

The sparkle in their eyes. The brightness of their smiles. The light glow of their skin. It was, and still is undoubtedly, a photo of two people head over heels in love with one another. Once upon a time, Brittany had this in her purse and refused to take it out to show anyone, just in case it got damaged. But things have changed, people have changed, and now it's lodged carelessly between two DVD's, with the color faded, corners torn, and image scuffed. And now it's just staring up at her mockingly, playing with her feelings carelessly.

"Santana?"

It takes a few seconds for her to realize someone's calling her name, and she twirls around to see Quinn standing at the door. Instinctively, she folds her arms behind her back, hiding the photo. Why the hell is she hiding it?

"Are you okay?" Quinn asks after a few seconds of studying Santana.

Her eyes search the room for any signs of anyone else, but there's no one. "Uh, yeah, I'm good."

Quinn takes a step forward. "What were you doing?" she asks quizzically, craning her neck and balancing on the balls of her feet to peer over the brunettes shoulder.

Santana steps backward, folding the paper between her fingers and tucking it in the back pocket of her jeans. She searches for an excuse that won't make her sound suspicious, but her mind runs blank. "Nothing. Just waiting for you to get here."

Quinn's face contorts into an expression that makes Santana think she's calling her out on her bullshit, but after a second or two, the blonde returns back to her feet and straightens out her glasses. Thank fuck for that.

"Okay. Brittany's got dance class in a half an hour. So you better get going now. Kurt's waiting in the garage and Brittany will be down in a second."

Santana nods, knowing that Quinn's still pondering over her previous actions and heads towards the door. She feels hazel eyes scan over her body trying to find evidence, and she hopes to God the photo isn't visible through her jeans.

* * *

><p>Around an hour later she's standing inside LA Dance Studios. It's too bright, the floors are squeaky, and there's a lack of seating, which leads to Santana leaning up against the back wall, right foot planted against it. The back of her eyes are aching and she rubs a hand over her face as Brittany walks in, sporting one size too small black tank top and baggy grey sweat pants bunched up to her knees. Her hair is disheveled and tied up into a messy ponytail, with her bangs framing her face.<p>

Can't Brittany just roll them down? Being Brittany's bodyguard meant being around her constantly whenever they were out of the mansion, and even when they were inside of it, her eyes had to be trained on the security cameras making sure she was safe. Usually she would dwell and whine about it, but knowing the psycho still hasn't disappeared, she's grateful for having to _always_ be around the blonde. Her eyes roam the room, and her arms cross as a group of children around seven or eight bounce in, eyes wide and a spring in their step.

"Hey guys!" Brittany exclaims, enthusiasm present in her tone and face.

Santana swallows the lump in her throat. Seeing Brittany happy pretty much sucks. Knowing she is still stuck in the damn broken place that the blonde left her in two and some years ago. The children all form a semi-circle around Brittany, and the blonde bends down to their height and starts talking with them, her face gleaming and eyes sparkling. She was always good with kids. It was good to see some things haven't changed.

The photo stuffed inside Santana's back pocket suddenly seems incredibly heavy to her. She uncrosses one arm and reaches for the photo. Her thumb traces the photo, and she can almost feel Brittany's grin against it. A small smile graces her face unconsciously and her eyes flicker to Brittany, who much to her surprise, is staring right back at her.

The blonde girl cocks her head to the side, studying Santana, and for a second her heartbeat quickens as she's frightened Brittany might somehow know what she's doing, just like she always used to.

"Guys, can I have your attention for a sec?" Brittany asks, tearing her eyes away from Santana.

She gulps and retracts her hand, re-crossing it over her arms as she straightens her back. St. James is screaming at the back of her mind to straighten up, since her posture isn't military material, but the tugging at her eyelids persuade her, and she figures she just doesn't care. It's LA, not Afghanistan.

"This is my… my…" Brittany says, stuttering as she looks towards Santana. "Santana."

Santana hearts seizes momentarily, and suddenly her ribcage feels like it can't contain it as it doubles in size.

_Brittany's_ Santana.

She finds her mouth dropping open without consent and her eyes widen. Santana can tell Brittany's panicking inwardly as she tucks a blonde bang behind her ear. The urge to scream and tell Brittany she _still_ doesn't have the right to address her, unless it's for professional reasons, burns through her. But she suppresses it, and tightens her grip on the sides of her black blazer.

When she's capable of doing anything at all, she notices the children all staring at her wide-eyed. She pushes off the wall and stands straight, nodding her head and feigning a smile. Her eyes glance up to Brittany, and Santana can tell the blonde's trying to say 'take it from here'.

"Hi," she says, giving a weak wave of her right hand.

The children all turn their attention back to Brittany who's chewing on her bottom lip with her eyes slightly narrowed, like she always used to when she wasn't entirely happy with what Santana just did. Brittany can't do that anymore. It's not her right to say what she can and can't do. So Santana bites her tongue, hoping to feel just the slightest satisfaction as the blonde realizes she's said all she's going to. Always too stubborn.

A small, brunette raises her hand at the front of the class, and Brittany smiles down at her. "Yes?"

"Why is she here, Miss Pierce?" the little girl asks, her voice so high it almost makes Santana cup her ears to protect them. It reminds her of Rachel Berry. The question wasn't rude or offensive, it just seemed rude and offensive. Just like everything else that ever came out of the dwarf's mouth. It's complicated, and something only Berry could do, and always manages.

"She's looking after me. Protecting me from bad guys," Brittany replies in a tone that's an octave higher than usual. It's a half soothing, half panicked and Santana can tell just from that how scared Brittany _really_ is.

"Is she your girlfriend, Miss Pierce?"

Santana snaps her head up and glares at the blonde boy at the front who's rocking back and forth with a large grin on his face. "Cause I have two mommies and mommy said she protects mama, and looks after her."

It's all too much for Santana. Even through her revelation from last night, she can't take it, and knows she doesn't have to. So instead of waiting to hear the answer, her legs are leading her out the door and the sound of the door slamming a little harder than necessary rings out through the long, grey corridor.

Puck's leaning up against the wall in the same manner she was in the studio, chatting to a redheaded dancer dressed in yoga pants and an incredibly loose tank top, which he's sneaking a peak down. She doesn't have the correct mindset to pay attention to the dancer as she walks up, grabs him by the collar, and pulls him away into the adjacent corridor.

"Take over for me," she demands.

He shrugs off her hand "Woah, Lopez, what's going on?"

"Take over for me."

"Santana," his hand rests on her shoulder. "Chill."

"Just do it, Noah."

Puck retracts his hand and leans back, studying her expression. After a second, his eyebrow raises. "What happened between you two this time?"

She rolls her eyes. "Nothing. Are you going to take over or do I have to go find Karofsky and tell him you're being a douchebag so he has to do it?"

"Woah, okay," he retorts, raising his hands defensively. "I'll do it, just chill, take a breather and come back to the studio when you're ready."

"When I'm ready?"

Puck nods. "When you're ready."

* * *

><p>Santana doesn't go back. Two hours later she's sitting in the front of the limo, with Kurt texting furiously in the driver's side. Judging by the enormous grin he pastes on his face every time his phone buzzes, she guesses he's texting Blaine.<p>

It's about 5 P.M. when Puck walks out, folding a piece of paper in his hands and tucking it to the inside of his pocket, smiling smugly. As he approaches the car, she notices the lack of a leggy blonde walking behind him and immediately steps out the car. Anger burns through her as she closes the gap between them, and prods him hard in the chest.

"I'll tell you about it later Lopez," he says with a wag of his eyebrows.

She looks at him incredulously. "I don't care about your next STD supplier, Puckerman. Where is she?"

His eyebrows shoot up and he takes a step back. "She's just clearing up in the studio. She wanted a few minutes alone, hope you don't mind, _mom_."

Santana scowls, her patience wearing thin. "Not funny."

He punches her lightly in the arm and grins. "I think that's up for debate."

"Get in the damn car, Puckerman."

She makes her way back through the building to the studio, and hovers outside the double doors of the room Brittany's in. She needs to suck it up, grab a pair or grow some, either would solve her problem. Of course, Brittany's bending over, showing an incredible view of her ass as Santana enters the room. If it wasn't for the emotional torture Brittany put her through, or the constant panic coursing through her as she imagines the stranger from last night's security camera attacking her, she'd probably be turned on. On second thought, she is.

Santana opens her mouth, but just as she's about to speak, the soft echo of Des'ree's _Kissing You_ interrupts her and echoes throughout the studio. Santana cocks her head to the side and flickers her eyes between the mirrored walls and Brittany. The blonde starts to spin around, moving steadily on the tips of her pointed toes as her eyes flutter shut in rhythm to the slow music. Santana can't prevent herself from just stopping in her tracks and watching. She can't stop as her jaw drops to the floor, because as always, Brittany dancing is _mesmerizing._

She leans against the doorway and crosses her arms as Brittany twirls slowly, raising her arms above her head with such grace. Every movement is so precise, so perfect. Chocolate eyes roam down the dancer's body, and marvels at the curve of the arch of Brittany's foot as she rises onto her tiptoes, and the way the steady calf muscle sculpts itself as Brittany leans forward, and raises her other leg high into the air above her.

Santana's throat thickens, and she swallows as the breath hitches inside it. She can't remember a time when Brittany dancing didn't take her breath away, and despite the intense tug on her heartstrings, she can't help but fall just that little bit more in love with the blonde.

Brittany sinks to the floor and her knees fold gently underneath herself as she lays back, the small of her back covering her ankles as her arms sweep the floor around her. Her back arches, and she leaves her neck to stretch as she continues rising. Santana can't stop the smile as the pale slope of Brittany's neck stretches, and tilts up. That neck. That _perfect_ damn neck. It's one of Santana's favorite parts of Brittany's body. The part she'd make a point of showing the blonde just how much she loved it as she used to spend hours trailing her tongue up and down it, pressing soft kisses to it and just generally marveling at its perfection.

The blonde pushes up onto one arm, supporting her whole body as her feet spin, twisting her body and showing off just how flexible she is. Her body arches and spins and twists in ways Santana didn't even think were humanly possible. She watches the muscles ripple beneath the dancers pale shoulders, and how her toned arms bend perfectly. The way Brittany moves is so beautiful that it almost makes Santana want to cry.

She's always loved Brittany's dancing; she could watch her for hours because Brittany was just that damn amazing. With every beat that came, the blonde's body swayed and tracked the rhythm, and she knew, ever since she saw Brittany first dance, the blonde and dancing were a match made in heaven.

Brittany runs her hands up her body, pushing her tank top up slightly and suddenly Santana's throat is drier than the Sahara Desert. She knows that Brittany isn't purposely doing that to taunt her, mostly because Brittany isn't aware of her presence, but it sure as hell feels like it. Creamy, toned abs make an appearance and Santana inhales sharply, just as Brittany spins on the ball of her foot so slowly that if it weren't for her impeccable balance, the blonde would be on the floor.

Somewhere along the line, Brittany's hair fell out of her ponytail and started hanging wildly around her shoulders. She watches as Brittany cracks open her eyes slowly, and the music dies off and her lips turn up at the corners gradually.

"Santana," Brittany says softly, her voice lacing with exhaustion as she pants heavily.

Santana's eyes widen and she takes in the flushed, surprised expression Brittany's sporting, and the way her mouth drops into a silent 'oh'. She's suddenly hyper-aware of her leering, and she straightens up, swallowing the lump in her throat and switches into professional mode to make sure she focuses on why she's here. To do her job as a bodyguard. To protect Brittany.

"Miss Pierce," she starts, wiping the smile she didn't realize she was wearing. "The car is waiting for you outside."

The blonde tilts her head to the side, and Santana recognizes the disappointment darkening blue eyes, and hates the way the regret settles in her gut.

"Oh, okay," Brittany says, but Santana's suspicions are confirmed as she hears sadness in her voice.

She turns and reaches her hand out, pressing her fingertips against the cool metal handle and applies the slightest of pressures when Brittany speaks.

"Uh, San?"

Her nickname punches her in the stomach, and she restrains from toppling over in agony. "Miss Pierce?"

"Can you, uh, help me with my bags please? I kind of have a lot of stuff to carry…"

Santana whips her head towards her and fights the urge to explain her job title and what it entails, and that it doesn't include being a bell boy. But when she sees the hopefully expression on the blonde's face, she knows immediately she's going to give in.

So she settles with a weak smile and a nod. "Sure."

Her eyes find the two duffle bags, a small backpack, and boom box sitting beside Brittany's feet and she urges her body to move forward. But her legs lock into place and she glances up to see Brittany eyeing her suspiciously. After a few seconds of willing herself to move, she puts one foot in front of the other and heads towards the bags.

As she approaches Brittany, her senses heighten, and she catches the hint of vanilla and coconut that wafts off the blonde. She swallows against it and her mind races with the nightmares that accompany it: the nightmares that have haunted her for the past two goddamn years and have caused many fucking sleepless nights and damp pillows. However this time, the scent is magnified. The sheer volume of it almost knocks Santana off her feet right then and there, and suddenly she's fighting the excruciating agony forming in her chest, thumping against her ribcage and twisting her organs. It's some kind of fucked up torture and she can't remember why she thought becoming Brittany's bodyguard was a good idea.

"So what do you wanna take?" Brittany asks tentatively.

Right, bags.

"I'll take the boom box and the duffel bags, you take your backpack," Santana replies as she picks up the duffel bags and swings one over each shoulder.

Brittany blinks. "But then you'll be carrying more than me."

A pale hand reaches out and brushes over the back of Santana's hand as she grasps the handle of the boom box. She keeps her eyes away from Brittany and keeps them locked on the slender fingers lingering on the back of her hand, determined not to look up. Because she knows if she does look up, she'll probably just crumble, or have to physically restrain the urge to grab her and plead with the girl to get back together.

"You're not my servant San. You don't have to do that," Brittany continues in that same voice that made Santana want to bawl her eyes out. It was _that_ voice. The soft, endearing one that always brought a smile to her face. The one that could always brighten her day, no matter what happened. That voice that always made Santana fall just that little bit more in love with Brittany. You know, _that _voice.

But the situation is all too familiar. It's too damn familiar and painful. She knows that if it was three years ago, she'd wave off the blonde, pick up all the bags and give the dancer a chaste kiss, murmuring 'I got it baby' with Brittany replying by scrunching up her nose adorably.

But it's not three years ago. It's now.

And Santana and Brittany aren't together, and it still fucking hurts. It makes her feel like she's just become Doctor Who and traveled back through time. She wants to help. Sure it's not in her job description but she's not a rude person, and her military training has told her to help whoever needs it, no matter who they are. Well, that's what she tells herself, anyway. But she doesn't know how to help Brittany in any other way than how she always did, and it's pretty damn frustrating.

"Fine," Santana replies hoarsely. "I'll just take the duffle bags." She turns and heads out the door, knowing she's got the lightest bags, but the heaviest weight on her chest.

* * *

><p>It's twenty minutes later, and they're all packed in the car, Brittany and Puck sitting in the back of the limo while Santana sits in the front with Karofsky and Kurt. She glances out the window, her body aching from lack of sleep and what feels like a thousand tons pressing against her chest. Brown eyes settle on the passenger mirror closest to Santana, and she sees a racing green SUV pull out as they pass Beverley Boulevard, one she's pretty she'd seen at the dance studio just as they'd left.<p>

Suspicion burns through her veins and she narrows her eyes. Her left side presses into Karofsky, who's sitting in the center seat, and she darts her eyes backwards quickly to ensure Brittany isn't listening.

"Karofsky."

He doesn't reply.

"David," she whispers more urgently.

He doesn't reply so she nudges him a little harder than necessary. Karofsky whips his head around and scowls at Santana. "What?" he hisses aggressively.

"I got a letter."

She knows it's going to take him a while to get it. And she waits patiently, drumming her fingertips over her jean cladded thighs as his eyes face forward to search for the meaning. It takes about a half a minute, quicker than Santana had guessed, and his face drops.

"What?"

Santana bites down the sarcastic scoff and her eyes peer through the hole separating the drivers cab from the extended seating at the back. Brittany's laughing animatedly with Puck, and Santana almost smiles until Karofsky pokes her in the ribs, where she feels a small bruise forming under his thick, sausage-like prod.

"I got a freakin' letter."

Blaine turns his head and she knows he's listening. "What did it say?" he asks.

Santana juts her thumb towards the lowered glass separation and shakes her head. It's a silent question, and Karofsky furrows his brows obviously confused by the gesture, which doesn't surprise Santana, and Kurt nods. A whurring sound becomes apparent as the small, tinted glass slides up and completely separates the drivers cab from the back of it.

"It's sound-proof," Kurt adds smugly, knowing the little handy gadget was his suggestion, and his words '_Santana, it'll come to good use someday. Plus it gives me a little privacy with Blaine' _actually came true. Santana didn't need to know anything more, and promised if he'd never refer to his and Blaine's intimacy ever again, he'd get the damn tinted separator.

"It said '_you can't protect her forever.'_" She grimaces at the words as they escaped her lips, and her mind flashes back to the security camera and the way the unknown figure pointed towards Brittany. Her nails dig into her palm deeply as the anger bubbles inside her chest.

"You can't protect her forever?" Kurt repeats.

Santana nods. "Yep. That was it. Nothing else."

Karofsky looks deep in thought, and she turns her attention to him. "What do you make of it?"

He shrugs. Wow, just as helpful as ever. "I dunno," Karofsky replies, clearly uninterested by the new information.

Santana tilts her head, studying the man next to her. Suspicion starts to bubble in the pit of her stomach, and her eyes narrow as her tongue skims along the front of her teeth. The car swerves and she hears Kurt curse at a cyclist or something, but she continues to study Karofsky as his eyes are set straight on the road.

He's a big man, with large, broad shoulders and a huge chest. There's something off about him, something Santana can't put her finger on. She's been around men this size before. Damn, she's been around _bigger_ men than this. But with Karofsky it's different. He may still tower over her like Finn Hudson, the captain of the football team did back in Junior year, but at least he was harmless.

Karofsky however, he's got a snarl that never seems to disappear. His smile looks more like a smirk and his eyes; they're hard and cold. They send shivers down Santana's spine. The same shivers she'd expect to get from walking through a desolate, abandoned warehouse, just knowing something's there, watching her. It's the shivers that scream at her to start running and get the fuck out of wherever she is, to safety or anywhere _less creepy_ than that warehouse.

Intrigued by Karofsky's intense stare, she follows his eyesight. He hasn't turned to make a snarky comment since she's been studying him, and due to her ninety degree turned neck and fixed eyes, she definitely isn't making it subtle. When she finds what he's staring at, she notices the same dark green SUV from earlier in the rear view mirror. Karofsky's eyes are trained on it, and she notices the way his jaw clenches slightly as the car turns a corner, and the following SUV does the same.

A tap on the window knocks her out of her stupor and she turns, only to face a dark tinted window. She hears a _'can you open this thing?'_ from inside, and smiles at Puck's confused tone.

"Yo, Lopez, what you doing tonight?" Puck asks when the window slides down.

Santana twists her neck backwards, her eyes still fixed on the car in the rear view mirror, which she's sure is following them. "Uh, my job?"

He chuckles. "Nah, you got the night off."

"Says who?"

"Le Puck, that's who."

She shakes her head and lets out a small laugh at his lame attempt at a French accent. During Santana's Army years, Puck visited France several times, and swore by his balls to Santana that the girls there, despite going _all naturelle_, were amazing in bed. That and in his three weeks of his vacation he'd mastered the accent because _"English chicks dig that shit" _– something he'd told Santana during one of his 'sexcapade' talks that bored her mindless. She inwardly giggles at the memory.

She feels eyes burning a hole into her temple and darts her eyes up the mirror so she's staring further into the limo. Chocolate brown orbs lock with blue ones, and Santana can sense the reluctance to her departure as a pale face frowns. Decision made.

"I've got a job to do, Puck," she replies, her eyesight never leaving Brittany.

Something glimmers in the blonde's eyes at her words and Santana's heart flutters, stops, and cracks all at the same time. She _really_ fucking hates that. It's getting old now, and she doesn't want to keep up this façade anymore. She doesn't want to pretend like she doesn't miss Brittany, or doesn't love her.

But that love's a lost cause. It's worthless, because _Brittany_ left. Not Santana. _Brittany._

She wanted to leave, and she left the god damn promise ring too. The one Santana promised to never leave Brittany with, the one Santana promised to love her forever with, to be there, and protect her always. No matter what. Brittany left that fucking ring, with a fucking rip-out-your-heart last kiss that still lingers and haunts Santana, even to this goddamn fucking day.

And she needs to remember that. It doesn't do anything except quell the anger bubbling in her stomach, but it puts her in her place. This is her _job._ This is her _promise._ She promised to protect Brittany, so she will.

"I don't get paid to get nights off. I'm Brittany's bodyguard. Nothing more."

Santana's pretty sure even Brittany hears the double meaning in her words, because the blonde flinches, her shoulders shuddering just an inch, and it does nothing but pain Santana even more. Another thing she fucking hates.

She watches as Puck opens his mouth to say something, but the SUV catches her eye and she narrows in on the mirror. The car is speeding, minimizing the gap between it and the limo. Santana feels her heartbeat quicken and she leans across Kurt, tugging the wheel so the limo swerves into the next lane, almost clashing with a pick-up truck.

"Santana!" Kurt yells, eyes widening as he turns to the Latina.

A _'what the hell Lopez?' _comes from the back, but Santana ignores Puck's question and snaps her head around to Kurt after witnessing the SUV move into the same lane.

"Turn off here, now," she demands, her eyes narrowing and facial features hardening.

Either Kurt's still crapping himself from the near-crash, or he can sense the seriousness behind her words, either way, he immediately turns right, pulling into the nearest road. Which, unfortunately, happens to be the one leading to Brittany's house. She hears an _'oh shit'_ from Karofsky and palms the gun resting under her left arm, gripping the handle tightly.

"Slow down," she says a little calmer than before, but her voice still an octave lower, showing the military demand backing it.

Kurt obliges and on cue, the SUV turns the corner and follows the limo. Santana reaches over Kurt and Karofsky and presses a button, which activates the separation, and within seconds the driver's cab is sectioned off.

"Kurt, as soon as we pull up by the gates, I need you to stop the car. I'm jumping out. Don't ask questions, just do it."

Kurt grins slightly. "Can I do a handbrake turn? Or a parallel parking spin?"

She can sense the sheer excitement in his voice, but at the moment, she can't appreciate just how child-like he sounds, but notes it in the back of her mind to mock him for it later. "No. Just get the limo inside."

Karofsky purses his lips and her eyes flicker to him. "You." He turns his head, eyes locked with Santana's. "As soon as the gates open, take my place and page 999 with this." She hands him a small, black pager. "It's Puck's emergency code. He'll know what to do."

Karofsky nods firmly, and Santana's suddenly grateful that he isn't questioning her actions. Suspicion flickers in the back of her mind, asking why he isn't, but her hand rubs it away as it brushes against her frowned forehead.

Within a couple of seconds, she hears Kurt indicating he's pulling into Brittany's driveway and she takes out her gun, arming her left hand as her right one finds the door handle. Her eyes find the mirror once more, and the SUV is short on their heels. As soon as the car slows down and pulls into the driveway where the gates are (to her surprise and dismay, are wide open), she leaps out of the car. But not soon enough to hear the soft _'be safe, San'_ coming from the back of the car.

The SUV speeds off as soon as she out, and drives carelessly along the road, swerving around the parked car and taking no notice of the lines marking the road. Her blazer flaps open as she runs along the edge of the fence. The darkness becomes a disadvantage as she runs into several piece of foliage. It brushes against her face, and she's pretty sure she'll have several scratches, or at least some mud on her face. Her legs are pumping hard and fast, her heart beating erratically, a thousand beats per second.

She's edging around the inside of the Pierce residence, suddenly kicking herself for the height change in the fence as she ducks and jumps every now and then to peer over the top. Her gun is wielded securely in her left hand, and she kicks her legs behind her, widening her strides and speeding up her sprint.

Two minutes later and she's at the furthest corner of the residence. Without hesitation she palms the gun to the right hand and leaps, pushing off the top of the fence with her left hand as her legs swing over the top, catapulting her to the pavement two feet below. Apparently the military assault courses weren't a waste of time.

The air's beating hard in her lungs as she narrows her eyes and watches the racing green SUV nearly knock over an old woman on a corner to the left. She runs across the street, with no regard for her own safety and climbs over another fence, swinging her legs in the same manner as before.

She sees the SUV about twenty yards away from her, and forces her burning muscles to push that little bit more, causing her to quicken her pace. They're protesting, shouting at her to stop the intense workout, since her body isn't up to as much physical activity as it was a few months back. The Gods seem to be working against her as the current backyard she's in tilts up, slanting into a small hill.

But she throws herself up it anyway, forcing her legs harder and harder. Luckily, despite the lack of exercise in the past recent months, her body is used to being pushed. Her eyes glance to the left, and she notices that she's in front of the SUV, and judging by the distance between the car and the fence, she could possibly jump on top of it, or at least catch a glimpse of the driver.

Santana doesn't even think as she holsters her gun mid-stride, and continues to pump her legs until she's nearing the edge of the fence. Her heart's still beating too fast for her liking, and the electric adrenaline pounding through her veins motivates her as the car gets close and closer. With one final inhalation, she takes three large strides, and pushes off the edge of a small boulder by the fence, throwing her full body over the fence and towards the moving vehicle.

She's flying through the air, almost in slow motion as her head turns, watching as the figure of the vehicle comes closer and closer. However it's over too soon as the realization sets in that she's going to miss the SUV by an inch or so. As it moves around her body, she braces her hands out in front of her, readying her body for the impact of her small frame against the hard concrete road. Which is _definitely_ going to hurt.

Just as she suspects, within a second she feels an intense pressure build up against her feet as she meet the ground, and she rolls her body, tucking her legs closer to her chest into a ball. The landing isn't exactly graceful as she completely disregards her hand injury and it collides with the ground with a sickening snap and jolt of intense pain, but she rolls herself to a stop. Her body flipping and twisting until her ribs almost snap under the feeling of a heavy curb against her side.

Santana shakes her head and snaps her eyes up immediately to find the retreating form of the SUV, but it's nowhere to be seen. It's vanished, completely gone. She turns her head, thinking somewhere during her tumble she had somehow landed facing the opposite way. But no. Still nothing.

She uses her good hand to push up from the pavement, suddenly taking in the unbelievable pain shooting off like fireworks inside her palm. It's the kind of pain that she doesn't even need to look at to know it's bad, and just seeing it will definitely make it worse than it actually is. Her legs carry her towards the curb, where she sits down, feet planted on the ground with her head and hands hanging in between her knees, and tries to regain some form of oxygen and to calm her nerves. She fucking lost him. He was right there, and she fucking lost him. Her hand is fucking killing, and a single tear of frustration leaves her eye and trails slowly down her cheek.

Santana ignores the pain as she curls her fists and presses them into her temple, moving in circular motions in any attempt to cool the fuck down. She could've ended it right then and there. Had she been fucking faster, she could have done her job and ended it. Fuck.

She pushes off the curb and kicks a piece of trash into the road. Before the anger gets too much, she pulls out her phone and dials a familiar number. It's encoded in her muscles, and she can't even remember typing it in as her thumb halts over the green button.

_Britt-Britt_ is written on the screen. The same name and number that she's had saved in her phone for six years. Six goddamn years and she still hasn't deleted it. Pathetic. But Santana shrugs it off, shoves her phone back into her pocket a little harder than necessary and trudges back towards the Pierce residence.

It's a dark, cold, and increasingly painful walk back.

* * *

><p>"<em>It's so pretty up here. You can see everything," Brittany breathed in amazement as her sparkling blue eyes roamed the skyline of Manhattan.<em>

_The stars twinkled above them as Santana stood behind her, palms resting on the blonde's sparkly-dress cladded stomach with pale and caramel fingers threaded together. Her chin rested on Brittany's shoulder, and she hummed in approval before pressing a soft kiss to the pale slope of her girlfriend's neck._

"_Yeah baby," Santana murmured, tilting her neck to the side to admire Brittany's awe-filled face. She loved everything about the blonde: the curve of her jaw, her high, defined cheekbones, and brilliantly blue eyes that seemed to gleam whenever she looked into them._ _She exhaled slowly, and felt her heart flutter and mind race with adoration as she continued to stare adoringly. "Yeah, beautiful."_

_Brittany must have heard the double meaning behind Santana's words and turned in her embrace, a blush tinting the blonde's cheeks and the tips of her ears. "I love you."_

"_I love you too," Santana replied, before leaning in and pressing their lips together._

_Her heart pounded a thousand beats per minute. The effect Brittany had on her, for lack of a better word, was fucking insane. It was almost unbelievable how much love she felt for this girl, it was like her heart was about to beat right out of her chest whenever she was around the blonde. Her right pocket suddenly weighed a thousand tons as her lips moved in sync with Brittany's. A soft, smooth tongue flicked against her bottom lip and she couldn't restrain the moan that escaped the back of her throat._

_They pulled back, and Santana rested her forehead against Brittany's as they tried to catch some oxygen, hot breaths mixing in the gap between their faces. She squeezed the blonde's hip before nudging Brittany's head up and capturing swollen lips quickly but surely, before pulling away and reaching into her pocket. Santana heard the slightly whimper at the loss of body contact as she put a four inch gap between their bodies. It may not have seemed like much, but for them, it was definitely unusual to be that far away from each other._

"_San? What are you doing?" Brittany asked, craning her neck to peek over the Latina's shoulder as Santana held the item behind her back._

"_Close your eyes," Santana said in a soft tone as she rocked up onto the balls of her feet to press a kiss to the blonde's nose. Brittany narrowed her eyes. "Baby, do you trust me?"_

_The blonde nodded. "Well, close your eyes then," Santana continued with a smile._

_Brittany examined her for a minute before her eyelids fluttered shut. Santana waited for a moment, just to make sure her girlfriend wasn't peeking and brought her hand around to the front. She opened her cupped hand picked up the sparkling, silver band from the palm of her hand and took a deep breath in, before holding it between their bodies._

"_Open your eyes," Santana said firmly as she laced the fingers on her free hand with Brittany's._

_Cobalt orbs revealed themselves and immediately lit up as soon as they located the ring Santana was holding up. Brittany's mouth dropped into a silent 'oh' and her eyes flickered between deep chocolate orbs and the piece of jewelry._

_A few seconds went by, and the Latina was becoming increasingly nervous as no words escaped the blonde's mouth, not even a thank you, or an _ohmygod. _Nothing. However when Brittany answered, it wasn't what she'd been expecting._

"_Uh, San, if you don't believe in marriage, why are you proposing?"_

_Santana's face fell, and suddenly she became embarrassed at the mixed messages. "No, Britt-Britt, I'm not proposing. It's a promise ring."_

_The blonde grinned. "A promise ring?"_

"_Yeah," she replied, grinning like an idiot. "But I want to do this properly so if you don't mind, Miss Pierce."_

_A soft, adorable chuckle escaped Brittany's lips and Santana dipped her head, blushing slightly, before kneeling down on one knee. She took a deep breath and glanced up, locking her brown eyes with glittering blue ones. Her breath hitched in her throat, but she coughed and relieved it before taking one of Brittany's hands._

"_I've never been one for emotions. I've never had a relationship, whether it be platonic or romantic, that lasted longer than twenty four hours. And most of all, I've never had anyone in my life that I've wanted to stay there. But that changed when I met you. I don't believe that signing a piece of paper and uniting two families together ensures 'forever' when it comes to two people. But I do believe in fate, and soulmates. And I know that fate did this, that the Gods built us as two pieces of a puzzle. Because I know we're meant to be."_

_Santana exhaled slowly, and licked her lips, noticing the tears brimming behind Brittany's bright blue orbs. God, she was so fucking in love with this girl. She shifted her weight and rose from the spot, leveling with the blonde and bringing one hand between them, hovering the band over the end of the blonde's ring finger._

"_With this ring, I promise you, that my love for you eternal, undying, and constant. And will remain that way until the end of time. And most likely even after that," she said with a giggle, to which Brittany joined her. She cupped Brittany's cheek, allowing her thumb to rub away a single tear track that stained the pale cheek before looking her dead in the eyes._

"_I promise you, Britt, that I will always be there for you, I will protect you with my life. No matter what happens between us, I will protect you with everything I have. And I promise you that I shall never fall for another, because I know I'm not physically capable of doing so. Brittany, as long as you're there… As long as you're mine… I don't need anything else in my life."_

_She slipped the ring onto Brittany's finger, leaving her fingertips to trail up the blonde's creamy skin as she awaited her answer._

"_I love you, Santana Lopez. And I promise you I will until the end of time," Brittany said firmly, sincerity and honesty lacing her tone._

_The Latina's heart fluttered and she grinned from ear to ear, marveling at the purity of Brittany's soul. She pulled the blonde into a tight embrace, their bodies pushing as tightly together as possible without molding into one as their lips met in a practiced, soft rhythm._

* * *

><p>"Lopez!"<p>

Santana turns as she trudges up the staircase towards the main house to see Puck running up to her in a slow jog. She shakes her head and goes to ignore him, seeing as she's really not in the mood to hear another fucking sexcapade story, or any other crude, sexist comment he could make. But it's not until now that she realizes she has no idea where she was headed.

"Lopez!" Puck calls again, his voice louder than before.

She gives in and hesitates, shoving her hand into her pocket and wincing as it squeezes through the small jean pocket. They were always too fucking small for her liking. Her hand screams at her in rejection but she swallows and clenches her jaw, baring the agonizing ache. "What?"

Puck slows down and stops on a step just below hers. "Woah, chill out, Lopez. Just wanted to check if you got anything on the SUV."

Another wave of frustration hits her and it only causes her mood to diminish even more so. "No. Fucking lost him."

"Okay, well no worries. We'll get the fucker soon," Puck says with reassurance lacing his tone.

He leans in and jabs her in the arm slightly, but due to it being the arm connected to the wounded hand, she grimaces as her injury burns and throbs heavily at the slight pressure. Santana shrugs him off. "Okay, I'm going inside now."

She doesn't know where she's going, but she doesn't want to be around Puck anymore. Frankly, she doesn't want to be around anyone at the moment, apart from her good old friend, Jack Daniels. A tug on her arm anchors her to the spot and she whips her head around, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

"What?" she hisses.

Puck retreats, backing down a step, sporting a scared expression. It almost makes Santana laugh, but her mood dampens once more and her face drains of all emotion.

"I just wanted to tell you we have a new member on the security team. But if you wanna meet him later then that's cool."

Does she never get a break? She exhales heavily and runs her tongue along her teeth. "Fine, who is it?"

The man grins widely. "I think you'll like him."

Santana immediately arches her eyebrow, curiosity coursing through her veins as she studies over his words. It's an uneasy feeling, knowing Puck knows more than she does and is being all mysterious and shit. No, wait, it's unsettling and incredibly uncomfortable.

"Cut the shit Noah. Who is it?"

Puck opens his mouth, but Santana doesn't hear what he says as her eyes flicker over his shoulder to Brittany, who's standing facing her by the fountain. Her eyebrows are furrowed and Santana looks away, not wanting to give into the urge to sprint over and hug the shit out of the blonde, which is increasing with every second. Her attention turns back to Puck who's just finishing his sentence.

"Ah, here he is," he says as he turns and focuses on something across the front yard.

Santana frowns and follows his sight, trying to ignore Brittany as she feels cerulean orbs burn a hole through her forehead. "Who?"

On cue, a swanky, red Ferrari drives up the long driveway. Santana's remotely aware of two things: the shine that's almost blinding her from beaming off the ridiculously expensive car, and the fact Brittany's moving from her rooted spot and ascending up the stairs to stand near her and Puck.

The Ferrari curves around the fountain, and pulls up just in front of the stairs. She focuses and narrows her eyes as a shadowed figure fiddles with something inside the cab of the car. The door swings open and Santana finds Brittany standing directly next to her, arms nearly touching and the back of their fingers brushing against one another.

This was one thing Santana really didn't want to happen. She didn't want to touch Brittany. Despite longing for the blonde's overwhelming touch, she knew her body couldn't resist it. It was like encoded into her body. Sure, they had touched accidently in the dance studio, but her composure was sure and steady then. Right now, the anger, lust, heart ache, love, frustration, and regret mixing in the pit of her stomach was doing nothing to yank her hand away. So instead she let their fingers linger against each other.

"Who is it?" Brittany whispers, her breath tickling Santana's neck.

Her head whips around so fast her neck clicks. "You don't know?"

"Nope."

What the hell? Brittany doesn't even know? She hums in response and frowns further.

"I wonder who it is," Brittany adds.

The Latina can sense the curiosity lacing her ex-girlfriend's (ouch, that hurts more than she thought it would), tone and almost smiles at how adorable she sounds. Cute Brittany was like Santana's kryptonite. It was the only thing in the entire world that could cause Santana to cave in, no matter what she had to do. The almost overwhelming urge to press her lips to Brittany's temple burns through her veins.

So instead she settles for the truth and swallows harshly. "I don't know."

Puck descends down the stairs, flicking his aviators down onto the bridge of his nose as his hands wind their way into his dark navy suit pants. His matching blazer flaps in the wind, and Santana can see the light blue collar of his crisp shirt do the same.

Her eyes glance up to the car, and suddenly a figure steps out, revealing a head of blonde hair and a pair of brown aviators, similar to Puck's. The unknown man has his back to Brittany and Santana and gradually, she takes notice of his features as he turns.

Broad, muscular shoulders, unnaturally bright blonde hair (which she's pretty sure is bleached), bright, white teeth and large… fish like… lips.

"No fucking way," Santana breathes as a smile creeps across her face.

She feels Brittany tense next to her, and questions it momentarily before the figure turns and her suspicions are confirmed as a large grin appears on his face. Her feet are leading her down the steps, two at a time, before she can even focus, and she leaps at his body, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as his hands wind around her waist.

"Oh my God, I haven't seen you in forever!" Santana exclaims, burying her face into the man's shoulder and inhaling his familiar scent.

After a few seconds, she realizes how un-Santana the gesture was and pulls away, straightening up and clearing her throat as she offers him a hand. He chuckles, and she grins as they shake hands firmly.

"It's nice to see you too, Santana. It's been too long."

Santana nods and grins as she feels blue eyes hardening behind her. A familiar burn etches into the back of her skull and she knows Brittany's facial features are hard, eyes are narrowed and fists clenched by her side. A quick look over her shoulder confirms this and she turns back to murky half-grey, half-blue orbs which are smiling at her.

She doesn't even care as she throws herself forward again and hugs the man once more. She sighs, knowing another friendly, familiar face is present and settles into the man's tight embrace as she thinks about Brittany. Despite never really getting emotionally attached to the guy, he was the first guy that she'd ever felt anything for, even if the feelings were almost non-existent. He was her go to guy whenever she needed to talk about Brittany, because Puck and Quinn were never _that_ kind of friend to her. Really, he was her best friend.

Santana exhales and sinks into his arms further, not realizing how much she actually missed him during their years of silence. Despite the hole forming in the back of her brain, she continues and tries to push away Brittany's glare as she tightens her grasp.

"Yeah Sam, it's been too long."


	8. chapter seven

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Seven]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **Big thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>8400

* * *

><p>"So, Sam." Santana grabs three beers from the fridge. "What are you doing with your life?" she asks as she spins on her heels, kicking the fridge door shut.<p>

Her and Sam had returned to the pool house after Quinn insisted on the Latina having the day off. She really didn't want it, but joined with Puck, Kurt, and Blaine who all backed the woman up, she didn't really have a choice. Brittany hadn't said anything to her, or anyone else for that matter, since Sam had arrived. The blonde had never liked Sam, and Santana never knew why. She'd asked, sure, but Brittany was pretty guarded about her feelings regarding the fish-lipped boy.

So after about ten minutes of being convinced to take the day off, Sam tugged on Santana's arm and they headed back to the pool house with Puck short on their heels.

The brunette walks out of the kitchen with two Budweiser's tucked beneath each arm, one in her free hand, and a bottle opener between her teeth. She walks back to the sofa, her leg sweeping to kick Puck's feet off the coffee table as she plops down beside Sam, handing him one of the beers.

"Yo Puck," she says, catching his attention as she lobs the other bottle. The bottle lands in the center of his chest, and she smirks at the way he's rubbing it and wincing.

Santana grabs the bottle opener and cracks it open, taking a large swig as she hands the opener to Sam. "So? Gonna answer, Trouty Mouth?"

The blonde lets out a large laugh, sputtering his beer down his shirt. "Damn, I haven't heard that nickname since high school." He pauses by wiping his chin free of dribbled beer. "I've been doing this and that, mostly security work. But when I saw you in the Seven Eleven, I called Puck and we've been talking ever since."

"Yeah," Puck adds. "Little Sammy boy here was unemployed so I thought hey, we could always use some more muscle, and so I offered him a job."

Wow, that was pretty gay, and that's coming from Santana. She snickers and straightens up. "Aw how cute, it's like a modern day fairy-tale."

Something hits the side of her head and she snaps her head up, looking at a Puck who's smirking and waving his label-less beer up. "Shut up, Lopez. Just 'cause you're all bitter and sh-"

Santana grimaces and watches as Puck's eyes widen, his mouth clamp shut with a large thud. Her heart momentarily sinks and she takes a large sip of her beer, inwardly craving hard liquor. Preferably whiskey or vodka. Maybe gin if it's here. Shit, she's back from the Army and already turned into an alcoholic. Fucking great.

"Uh, so," Sam interjects, clearing his throat in order to break the tension. "Puckerman, you still trying to get into Quinn's pants?"

Puck nods. "She's one tough cookie. It's like she's wearing a freakin' celibacy cage in her pants."

Santana chortles. "Or maybe she just doesn't want to catch whatever sex disease you've decided to sport this week."

The blonde man next to her starts to laugh, and she turns her head and joins in. Soon enough, they're both doubled over, clutching their beers and leaning into each other, gasping for air. Puck's just sitting on the sofa to their left, feet propped up once more wearing a scowl, taking moody sips on his beer and muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

"Seriously Puckerman," Sam starts, leaning forward and putting his beer on the table top. "Tell me you have monthly checkups at least."

Puck shakes his head. "El Puckerone doesn't need to get a checkup, trust me."

The Latina raises her eyebrow. He really is full of shit. He's had his fair share of women. Well, he's had most men's fair share of women. In high school he went through at least seventy odd girls, but he'd never worn Santana down. Even though she'd slept with half the football team, Puck was just a no go. He was too much like a brother.

"Whatever Puck, when your dick drops off don't come running to me," Santana quips, sipping on her beer.

"As if, Lezpez. We all know dicks are your worst nightmare."

Sam whips his head around, and Santana catches it in her peripheral vision. For a couple of seconds she feels the blonde man study her, and she raises an eyebrow as she turns to him, eyeing his quizzical expression.

"You're…"

She curls up the corners of her lips and raises her brow even further. "Gay?"

Sam nods.

"Yeah," she replies carefully.

The blonde's man face falls into an expressionless canvas. Santana swears she can see disgust shade behind his eyes, and suddenly their bodies are a lot further away from each other than they were a few seconds ago. Her eyes dart to Puck who's completely oblivious to the intense examination Sam's giving her, as his fingers are hovering over the remote control. The sounds of a soccer game can be heard in the background, and Santana narrows her eyes as she searches Sam's face.

It's not like she's never encountered someone who was either surprised by her sexual orientation or disgusted by it, but there's something about Sam's reaction that causes her to feel uncomfortable. She doesn't know why, but she sure as hell wants to find out.

"Is that a problem?"

Something snaps behind Sam's eyes and he shakes his head. "No. Sorry. Just surprised, that's all."

Santana shrugs and leans into the armrest. "Most people are."

"Probably 'cause you're too hot to be a lesbo," Puck interrupts.

Her usual reaction would be to leap out of the seat, grab Puck by the collar and head butt him or give him a taste of her right hook. But she's become used to his lesbian digs, and since she's in a good mood, which is pretty damn rare for her, she takes another swig of her beer and mutters, "Ignorant ass."

Puck laughs and Sam turns his attention to the TV. Santana watches as his body still hasn't relaxed since finding out her sexuality. She inwardly debates whether or not to press the blonde man, to question his reaction to and ask whether or not it'll actually be a problem. But she doesn't. She inhales deeply, pushing back the urge and accidently taking in Sam's cologne. Suddenly her brain is racing a mile a minute and her nostrils are flaring.

It's familiar. Strangely familiar. Not in the way Brittany's smell is familiar, but in the way that she's smelt it recently, she's noticed it somewhere and mentally took note of it. Wait, could it be… No, stop, it's ridiculous. Sam just got here. There's _no_ _way_ she could recognize the aftershave coming from him. It's just her imagination. Plus, there are probably shit loads of places that sell it and she's just being her good old paranoid self.

So instead of questioning herself any longer and forcing on a headache, she settles down into the sofa, tucking her knees up to her chest and focusing on the game.

* * *

><p>It's 6 P.M. on Thursday and Santana finds herself leaning against the side of the limo, one foot propped up against the driver's door and hands digging deep into her pockets. She tilts her head and watches as the blue sky blends in with the coming darkness and turns into a deep purple. The sun is going down, the half-circle disappearing beyond a landscaped line somewhere in the distance.<p>

Everything's quite amusing. Kurt is fluffing his hair in his reflection in the dark tinted windows, Blaine is rapidly pacing up and down the length of the limo, Sam is tapping away on his phone, and Karofsky is shuffling his weight every now and then, exhaling heavily and showing his impatience through drumming fingers. Everyone's rushing as it's officially Brittany's first show at a venue down in Inglewood, and they were supposed to leave about twenty minutes ago. Come to think of it, Santana doesn't even know what this _show_ is.

"Lopez!"

Santana jolts up, her thoughts falling out of her brain as she whips her head around to look at the top of the stairs, where Puck's grinning down at her. She chuckles lightly, amused by his expression as he knows he just scared her and she proceeds up the stairs.

"What's up, Puckerman?"

He descends down until he's on the same step as Santana. "Go round up the troops, Britt's nearly ready and we're already running late."

"I know, I've been waiting out here for a half an hour," she deadpans.

The sound of the engine revving goes off in the background. "Yeah, well Q's just getting Berry and then we're off."

"Berry?"

Puck motions to the limo, and they both start heading down the stairs towards it. "Yeah, Q and Berry are like joined at the hip."

Santana chokes on the air that catches in her throat. She grasps his forearm and anchors him to his spot. "What?"

The hazel eyed man raises an eyebrow. "I thought gay people had a radar or something?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Gaydar. And fuck you."

"Woah, chill Lezpez," Puck says as he raises his hands defensively.

"Puck…"

"Alright, alright," Puck starts. "Basically, Q's bi, which is pretty hot, but she's against having a threesome which sucks," Santana punches him in the arm hard, and grins. When he rubs it, his faces contorts with pain, and it only causes her grin to widen. "Anyway… I'm pretty sure my Jew babe is crushing on her. Berry only got the job because Fabray insisted she have it."

They reach the limo and Puck raises his elbow, leaning against the roof and crossing his ankles. Santana's grateful they've reached the car, because she's now back to leaning against the side, steadying herself as she processes the information. She's never been more surprised. Well, technically, she's more surprised at the fact she's not surprised. But thinking back to it, it all makes sense.

Like all through high school, Quinn had always been a bitch to the dwarf. Well, that's what Santana witnessed up until she left. She'd always dig at the Jewish girl and call her 'treasure trail', 'RuPaul', 'man-hands', or some other vertically challenged/offensive remark. But as Santana thinks, life kind of has a way of doing that.

It's like nature, fate, karma, or one of those other superstitious bullshit excuses that people blamed shit on, that wasn't scientific but could never _technically_ be proven wrong. One day, stereotypical high school bitchy cheerleaders would be bitching at little nerdlings. They'd throw slushies in their faces and push them against the lockers (all of which Quinn did to Rachel), and then ten years later, boom. They're strolling down Hollywood Boulevard holding hands and pushing a freakin' carriage. The world certainly does work in mysterious ways.

"Damn, that shit's weird," Santana says, trying to bleach the image of Quinn and Berry doing it from her brain.

They lean against the limo, waiting as several bodies rush around them. Rachel and Quinn? That's seriously going to take some getting used to. All the sexual drawings of Berry in the bathroom back at McKinley now make sense. All the longing looks, the whole boyfriend fiasco they had going on where they were constantly at each other's throats for a Jock that, well, frankly, they could've done a lot better than. It all makes sense. And now Santana finds out that Quinn insisted Rachel get the job? Damn, Fabray's got it bad.

"Puck?"

He hums in response.

"What does Berry do?" Santana asks. She's curious. Like genuinely curious. She's seen the girl once or twice since being here and she still doesn't know. Well apart from the yelling she walked in on, that pretty much was the extent of her knowledge. Come to think of it, what the hell does Brittany do?

Puck pushes his aviators down from the top of his head, covering his eyes. "I'm not actually that sure. But she's definitely occupied the role of being fucking annoying. She yells at the dancers whenever they're here, and sings every now and then with Britt."

Brittany sings? Shit. Now she's even more confused as to what the blonde does. Screw it, if Puck laughs at her she can just punch him again and watch him fight the pain. She smirks inwardly.

"This is gonna sound stupid, but what does Brittany do?" Santana asks after a few seconds, shaking off the thought of putting a guy at least one foot taller than her in his place.

Puck switches the leg he's leaning on and his brows furrow. "Um… I don't actually kn-"

"Technically what I do doesn't have like an actual job title."

Santana snaps her head around, quick enough to create the click as her neck twists and she sees Brittany standing a few steps up, dressed in a long white cloak with the hood up. The creamy color of the fabric only brightens Brittany's eyes, and for a few seconds, the brunette loses herself in ocean blue.

"I can take it from here, Noah," Brittany says with a smile. Santana knows this is a polite _fuck off_ in Brittany world, and so Puck nods, winking quickly at Santana before heading to the back of the car where Sam is talking with Karofsky.

The Latina dips her chin to her chest and scuffs her feet along the gravel, trying not to focus on just how beautiful Brittany looks, and how much the blonde is affecting her heart. Which she's pretty sure is about to give out in a few seconds.

"I do a little bit of everything, really. As you know, I teach a few classes down at LA Dance." Santana keeps her eyes fixed on her brand new black Chucks. "I sing a bit, but it hasn't got me as far as my dancing and choreography has. But tonight I'm performing one of my own choreographed dances at Marbella's," Brittany breathes in deeply. "Quinn kind of made me since I've got a tour coming up and all."

Santana tries not to seem amazed by this information. Brittany had done so well for herself. She'd got everything she'd ever wanted, even down to the damn duck door bell, dolphin fountain, and the whole room dedicated to her life, which included ornaments, pictures and much more. Well, that's what Quinn had told Santana anyway.

But ever since Brittany left, Santana kind of hoped in some fucked up, selfish way that Brittany would fail in LA and come back to Santana in Ohio, where Santana would welcome her back with open arms and a stitched up heart. There was never really a debate as to what the Latina would do if Brittany ever did come back. She liked to think she was strong enough, and stubborn enough for that matter, that she wouldn't let the blonde back in if she ever returned. That she'd be able to move on, leave Brittany in the past and live the rest of her days with a half, yet mostly functional, life. But ultimately, given the chance, Santana knew she would've taken Brittany back in without a second thought. Because, well, it's Brittany.

"Wow B, that's amazing," Santana says with a fake lightness to her voice.

Her mind flickers back to the night the blonde left, '_I want this opportunity'_, Brittany had said that night. The blonde had done it all by herself. She'd made the life she has now; she created the mansion, the hundreds of employees and never-ending stream of cash. She'd gotten the damn door bell and all her friends to live with her. She'd done it. She'd made her dreams come true. Without Santana. Yep, there goes her heart with a sickening crunch.

Santana winces and tries to push down the pain clawing up her throat. "Your dreams came true," she mutters lowly, hoping it was quiet enough that Brittany didn't hear. But somewhere, she hopes the blonde did.

A silence greets their conversation, and it seems that even the background noise has faded. The brunette waits for a few seconds before glancing up. Chocolate brown meets with dark sapphire and she catches her breath. Brittany takes a tentative step forward, lowering her hood so her golden locks gleam in the setting sunlight, and the Latina lowers her head once more.

"Why didn't you call me?"

Santana flicks her head up so fast she's pretty sure it just disconnected from her body. "What?"

Brittany gulps and looks away, crosses her arms and shuffles her weight indecisively. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Why didn't _I_ call _you?_" Santana responds incredulously, not believing what she's hearing. There's no way Brittany can _actually_ be asking her this. It must be some disturbed, confused dream.

"You didn't call me when I left," Brittany explains, only fuelling Santana's anger. "You just let me walk out the door."

Rage bubbles inside Santana's chest. She feels it shoot throughout her body like a firework, sparking her fibers and causing her fingertips to tingle. Her eyes fall upon the blonde, examining the blonde's words. Damn, she's actually one hundred percent serious. What the fuck?

"I _let_ _you_," Santana hisses, throwing Brittany's words back in her face. "Walk out the goddamn door after you told me you wanted to leave. It's pretty simple why I didn't call you, Britt. You left, by your own accord, told me not to come with you, and left the damn promise ring as another slap in the face. So please, enlighten me in why you think I should've called."

Brittany frowns. "What does an instrument have to do with this?"

The Latina almost laughs but keeps her anger in balance. "Not _accordion_, accord. You left because _you_ chose too. So why would I call?"

She feels her fingertips tingle with rage, and expects a long silence in which the blonde would inwardly debate the answers as they processed through her brain. Santana thinks Brittany will take her bottom lip between her teeth, furrow her brows to the point that the adorable crease appears above the bridge of her nose and think hard about the answer. But, she's wrong. Instead she receives an answer that shoots back quicker than a bullet leaves a gun.

"Because I'm Brittany, and you're Santana."

Suddenly Santana's fists unclench, and her shoulders hunch. She's at ease, she's completely relaxed and any anger that was burning through her body has now disappeared. _Because I'm Brittany and you're Santana._ Such a simple answer, one she's heard before. And it almost astonishes her at how the silent statements that come with those six words, still affect her. Coffee orbs flicker between each cobalt one, acknowledging the recognition and memories accompanied with those words, and Santana wracks her mind trying to find _anything_ to say in response. Literally anything would be useful. But no. There's nothing.

It's fucking stupid. She's unable to fucking speak and the golden opportunity to throw everything she's ever wanted to say at the blonde, her anger, love, hurt, everything she's felt throughout the last few years, is present. And she can't. She wants to, but she can't. Every single damn word in the English dictionary has fallen out of her damn brain, and her mind is blank. Almost to the point where a fucking tumbleweed rolls across the inside of her head. Brittany's staring at her expectantly, hope brimming behind blue eyes, and still absolutely nothing comes to mind. _Nada._

"Ladies," Kurt interrupts, his eyes darting between the two girls, as if he's trying to decipher what he just walked in on. "We need to get going. You know how Quinn gets when we're more than a minute late."

Blaine joins them, checking his watch as he throws his other arm around Kurt's waist. "Hun, we're nearly a half an hour late anyway."

"Which means Quinn's already thirty times more pissed than usual," Kurt replies with a _duh_ lacing his tone.

Santana runs her tongue along the back of her teeth, and clenches her jaw as she tries to remember anything the chauffeur just said. It literally went straight through one ear and one out the other. Brittany's words are printing over and over again inside her brain, taunting her like some twisted, fucked up type of torture.

"So," Kurt continues, his eyes darting between Santana and Brittany, finally settling on the brunette. "Santana, is everything okay so we can go?"

She spins on her heels and throws a look over her shoulder, realizing she hadn't actually answered yet. "Yes. Let's go."

This job, this damn job is just getting more fucking complicated, day by day.

* * *

><p>"<em>Brittany!" Santana called excitedly. When she heard nothing in response, she did a quick once over of the room and jumped up and down on the spot, thrashing her arms about crazily.<em>

_She'd spent the past two hours dressed up in a pin striped power suit, babbling on about her father's will with his stuck-up lawyer. They'd eventually settled on what Santana would receive, being the Lima house, something ridiculous like twenty acres of land that settled behind the house, all the cars that belonged to the Lopez family and her father's savings, which apparently racked up to over one and a half million dollars. Santana had literally been so surprised by the amount she was receiving, due to her mother being MIA, that the lawyer had laughed and told her to go home to let it sink in._

_And that's how she ended up back in her apartment looking like a four year old that just received a personalized letter from Elmo himself. After a few minutes, she managed to tame her feelings and take her blazer off, revealing a light purple blouse that seemed to grow tighter and tighter around her boobs every single time she wore it. If she didn't know any better, she would say Brittany was shrinking her tops._

"_Britt?" Santana asked, calmer this time, searching the apartment for her favorite blonde. "Britt, baby, where are you?"_

_Another silence answered her calling and she frowned, her mood immediately disappearing as she thought she wouldn't be able to share it with the love of her life. Where the hell was Brittany? As she stayed silent, pondering on the days of the week and wondering if the blonde had a dance class, she heard the light hum of a radio and grinned. It was coming from the bathroom._

_She kicked off her heels, and padded over to the bathroom where she knocked lightly and pushed it open. Just as she expected, Brittany was lying up to her collarbone in fluffy bubbles with her eyes closed, listening to the radio and humming along quietly. Santana stood there for a moment, arms crossed, shoulder propped up against the doorframe and ankles crossed, just gazing at how damn beautiful her girlfriend was. After a few silent moments, Brittany cracked an eye open and jolted backwards in the bathtub, splashing a few droplets of water over the side of the bath as she braced herself against the side with her arms._

"_Jesus San, you scared me," Brittany panted as she allowed her body to sink back into the water._

_Santana chuckled lightly. "You're just so beautiful I can't help myself sometimes."_

_The blonde cocked her head and grinned. "Well aren't we the cheesiest ball around?"_

"_Meh," was the only response Santana gave as she stepped into the bathroom and knelt down, leaning against the side of the tub as she dipped her finger into the warm water. "It's what you do to me."_

_Brittany smiled from ear to ear and leaned towards the Latina, pressing her lips to her girlfriend's quickly before pulling away and scrunching her face. "I love you."_

"_I love you too," Santana said as she moved her finger about in a circular motion in the water. "Oh, and I have some news. It's not that important but you know, just thought you'd like to know."_

_Brittany frowned, and fear immediately shaded behind her eyes. She shuffled, and sat up in the bath until the water was just covering her boobs. "San? What is it?"_

_Santana's mouth dropped as the water moved in ripples, revealing a pert, pink nipple every other wave. Arousal shot straight to her core, and she gulped audibly as her eyes stayed fixed on rippling water. A prod to her nose broke her out her gaze and she looked up to a grinning Brittany._

"_San, baby, don't make me cover up for you to tell me."_

_She groaned, and leaned forward, kissing her girlfriend's nose quickly before pulling back only an inch or so and staring her in the eyes. "Guess who's a millionaire?"_

_Blue eyes darted between brown, and suddenly Brittany's face dropped into a look of complete shock and she squealed, jumping about in the tub and splashing Santana in the process. "Oh my God! San that's amazing!"_

_For a second, Santana paused and gave the blonde a quizzical stare at the lack of physical excitement she had expected to get. At least a hug, I mean come on, it's Brittany. But apparently the dancer noticed and cocked her head, and pouted. "If I hug you I'll get you wet."_

_The double meaning immediately struck Santana, and she grinned as she wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. She shrugged and looked down at her suit, before looking at the tub where she saw a pale knee protrude from the water. Her imagination did the rest and suddenly images of a naked Brittany popped into her mind and she smirked as she stood up._

"_You know how I like to get wet," she said as she climbed into the tub, fully clothed._

_Brittany squealed and they both started laughing uncontrollably as the dancer retracted her legs and made room for her girlfriend. However Santana disapproved of this, and smirked at Brittany before pulling her by the legs until they were straight and her feet sticking out at the other end of the tub. Once again the blonde started giggling, her face screwing up adorably as she wriggled underneath olive fingertips tickling her ribs._

_Santana winced inwardly at the feel of her rather expensive suit getting drenched and sticking to her body, but the thought immediately disappeared as it was replaced by the feeling of her body lying flush against Brittany's bare chest. Strong arms snaked around her back and she gripped the blonde's naked waist and squeezed lightly, tilting her head up to lock with sparkling blue eyes._

"_You're so silly," Brittany commented as she brought one hand out the water, covered in bubbles and bopped Santana's nose._

_She scrunched her nose up in response and crossed her eyes to focus on the lone bubble that'd settled on the top of her nose. The blonde laughed once again and Santana's heart inflated. She was so damn lucky to have Brittany, and every day was like Christmas when she was with the beautiful blonde. Fuck. She would never get tired of this feeling. Brittany broke her from her train of thought as she tucked a lock of her wet, dark hair behind her ear._

"_Where'd you go, space cadet?" the blonde asked innocently as she kissed Santana's temple._

_The brunette sighed loudly, feeling her heart flutter over and over again at the feel of Brittany's perfect lips against her skin. The way the blonde made Santana feel was like magic. She'd never experienced anything like it before and frankly, she never wanted to feel any other way ever again. Brittany was the one thing she wanted to stay constant in her life, and she sure as hell was going to make sure of it._

_Santana shrugged as much as she could in a bathtub. "Just thinking about how much I love you and how fucking lucky I am to have you."_

"_San," Brittany warned._

_The Latina grinned, remembering the day they met and how even then Brittany didn't like how much Santana swore. Even to this day, if anyone else commented on how much she swore, she'd give them the finger and tell them kindly to fuck off, but with Brittany it was just pretty damn cute._

"_Sorry baby," Santana replied as she craned her neck to press a sweet kiss to the corner of the blonde's mouth._

_Much to her surprise, as she pulled away, Brittany captured Santana's lips, taking the Latina's bottom lip between her own and sucking lightly. The brunette moaned loudly and skated her hands up to the swell of Brittany's breasts, running her thumb across the soft skin under the water. The blonde's taste was undeniably addictive. Once Santana had a single taste of it, she knew she'd never want to stop. However, the kiss ended before she could deepen it, and she looked up to a grinning blonde and pouted._

"_I wasn't finished," she muttered sternly, as she pressed their lips together again._

_Brittany responded quickly, as always, and smiled into the kiss. The Latina could only smile back, and their teeth bumped together causing both of them to giggle. Pale fingers tangled into Santana's half-wet, half-dry locks, and pulled them closer together as their lips spoke volumes about their love and lust for one another. A tongue flicked against Santana's full lips, and she greeted it happily as she parted her lips. Brittany's tongue was eager to taste and explore, just like every other time they kissed, and Santana could only allow it as her heartbeat quickened and felt the slick and incredibly talented body part slide across her own with such grace. It was crazy how the blonde was not only graceful in her dancing, but in every other aspect of her life, including kissing. Definitely including kissing._

_Their tongues touched and glided against one another as their individual tastes mixed. Brittany moaned quietly as Santana took the reins and they switched positions, her tongue tracing along the inside of the blonde's mouth and groaning at the unique, sweet taste that covered her tongue. It wasn't a sexual kiss, it was one that could only be backed up by the intention of showing the other person how in love and how much they felt towards each other. This was definitely one of those times. Their kisses spoke volumes that no one else could hear._

_The blonde made quick work of the Latina's clothing, and before she knew it, Santana was just as naked as her girlfriend. But the intent behind this stripping once again wasn't arousing. Well, admittedly it was, but there was more of an intimate feeling backing up the actions. And God knows Brittany loved to snuggle. Especially naked. It nearly made Santana laugh out loud as somehow Brittany's kisses always made her completely oblivious to everything in the world, even the removal of her own damn clothes. She giggled inwardly and returned her mind to focus on the kissing. _

_After one last glide of Brittany's mouth, Santana pulled away for breath and rested her forehead against a pale one, marveling at how light headed she felt whenever she parted from the blonde's addictive kisses. She could feel her breath tangle with Brittany's as it blanketed the bottom half of her face, and a smile unconsciously graced her lips._

_Santana turned and slid beside the blonde so her back was pressed up against the side of the tub and against the blonde's body. Brittany shuffled forward so Santana could sit behind her, legs on either side of the dancer and leaned until her back was pressed up against Santana's bare chest. The brunette sighed heavily and ran her fingertips from the top of her girlfriend's shoulder down to the crook of her elbow, then to Brittany's fingers where she threaded them together and gripped tightly._

"_Do you think it'll always be like this?" Santana asked after a few long seconds of silence._

_She grinned as she saw the sides of the dancer's face tighten, and she knew Brittany was frowning in confusion, so she elaborated. "Always loving you this much, and always wanting you?"_

_Brittany turned her head to the side awkwardly, and managed to look Santana straight in the eye. "Definitely."_

_The confidence behind Brittany's words made Santana shudder as the love fluttered through her being. She closed her eyes and pulled the blonde closer to her body, just admiring the way Brittany's body fit so perfectly against her own. They really were two pieces of a puzzle; they were undeniably made for each other. And Santana knew without the blonde, her life and herself, would forever be incomplete._

"_How are you so sure?" Santana asked after a few moments._

_Brittany smiled and bent her neck to press her lips to Santana's. The kiss lingered longer than she'd expected, but she was always prepared for surprises when it came to the blonde, so she took it gracefully and responded by cupping a pale cheek gently and swiping her tongue once over Brittany's pink lips before pulling away with a satisfied smile._

"_Because I'm Brittany, and you're Santana," Brittany said confidently. "And we're just meant to be."_

_And suddenly the minuscule amount of doubt inside her brain disappeared completely. After all, she was Santana, and Brittany was Brittany._

* * *

><p>It's a little after 7:30 P.M. when they arrive at Marbella's. Santana stayed silent the whole way, inwardly debating whether chucking herself out the car was less painful than enduring another day of working for Brittany. Especially now that she's saying shit like '<em>B<em>_ecause I'm Brittany, and you're Santana' _and just fucking up her brain even more. But instead she's grinning and bearing it.

"We're here," Kurt says as he parks the limo.

Santana is out the car before anyone can say anything and she stands with her hands folded behind her back, neck straight and eyes roaming for any signs of anything suspicious. She can hear the sound of LA life and car doors shutting. But there's nothing out of the ordinary, so she heads towards the back of the limo and swings open the door.

Puck's the first to get out, and he straightens his blazer by pulling the lapels before scanning the venue up and down. "Looks like a bit of a shit hole."

Santana shrugs him off and steps away from the door, knowing who's next to exit. "A show's a show."

"Wow," Puck comments, his face incredulous. "You sound like Berry more and more every day."

She looks over at him and scowls, "Shut up, Puckerman."

A throaty laugh escapes his lips and she purses her own as a hand presses against her shoulder. Her left hand snaps to her gun and she's gripping the handle as she turns and sees Quinn standing in front of her with a single eyebrow craned.

"You gonna shoot me, Lopez?" Quinn taunts, chin jutting down towards the holster.

Santana releases the gun and shakes her head. "I'm just on edge."

The blonde narrows her eyes slightly and peers over the Latina's shoulder to something behind her. "Well you can't whip your gun out every time someone touches you tonight, otherwise you might as well be walking around with it welded to your hand."

Santana rolls her eyes and smiles lightly. "Yeah, well someone's gotta protect your ass, Fabray."

At that precise moment, Rachel bounces out from the other side of the car and slides up against the smaller blonde's side, grinning as their shoulders brush. Puck's earlier words come back to Santana, and she watches the subconscious grin grace Quinn's face. Her immediate reaction is to hurl, because the venom bubbling in the pit of her stomach is causing a hell of a lot of bile to rise up her throat.

But instead, she locks on to how happy the blonde looks and watches the way her hazel eyes brighten and how she can't _stop_ smiling whenever Rachel's around. And it makes her heart hurt. It fucking hurts and she swallows against a thickened throat, because she knows she used to get that feeling. She knows exactly what that feeling is like; how amazing and how goddamn incredible it is to have one person, one damn person make you feel like you're on top of the goddamn fucking world.

After the brunette and blonde standing in front of Santana talk for a couple of minutes, Rachel departs and Santana pastes an _up-to-no-good _expression on her face and continues from where she left off.

"And God knows man-hands can't protect you. Well, unless she starts talking."

Quinn snaps her head around, and her eyes widen. "What?"

"Really Fabray?" Santana says, as they walk towards the venue entrance. "I'm not blind."

Quinn chuckles dryly and replies calmly. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Lopez."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Whatever, deny it all you want but it'll just come back and bite you in the ass."

"Well you would know."

She stops and grinds her teeth together. It seems that the blonde either knows how her words are affecting Santana or she simply doesn't care, because she's throwing Santana a knowing glance and heading into Marbella's. Santana just stands outside going over Quinn's words, watching the doors open and close as Kurt, Blaine, Puck, and Karofsky all walk into the venue. She does know, because she's even denying it now. But it's not the same situation. And Fabray has no fucking right to say that they're similar because they're not. They're _completely_ different, in every single way.

A presence forms behind her and she winces as a familiar coconut scent slaps her. Her legs are leading her inside before she can even turn to look at Brittany, and the small clicking along the pavement tells her the dancer is following her. Well good, it's her job, that's what she's supposed to do. Protect Brittany. That's it.

* * *

><p>Seventeen minutes later, Santana is leaning outside the venue with her foot planted on the wall, and it's raining. She shifts her feet back and forth as she waits for Puck to come out, after she sent him inside to grab her a cup of coffee just underneath a small awning outside the venue. Coffee never sat well with her. Despite it obviously being a caffeine boost, it seemed to have the complete opposite effect and she'd always feel unbelievably tired afterwards. Well, unless she had plenty of cream in it. Her attempt to stay dry is fading by the second, since apparently the world is now against her and the wind has decided to blow every single damn raindrop towards her.<p>

It's wet, she's wet. It's cold, she's cold. And honestly, she just wants to get today over and done with and head back to her house, pool house, living quarters? Well, whatever it is, she wants to get back there, grab the bottle of vodka she bought weeks ago in preparation for one of these moods and spend the night drowning away her sorrows and memories. Fleetingly, she thinks of cigarettes and how cliché it would be to smoke one right now, especially because she's never actually _wanted_ one, like, ever. Her fingers tap against the top of her thighs as she tucks her thumbs into the pockets and allows her head to fall back onto the brick wall behind her. _Seriously, where the hell is Puck?_

The rain patters against her face and she blinks against it. There's not really any point in wiping it off seeing as they'll be replaced in about two seconds flat, and so she huffs and tugs her jacket close to her body. Santana feels the heavy thud of her heart against her ribcage ever since Brittany brought back several painful memories, and she hasn't been able to stomach seeing her since. Hence why she's standing out in the rain.

"Lopez? You out here?"

Santana pushes off the wall and turns the corner to see Puck, who's walking out of the venue with his hands fiddling with his belt buckle. He's taken that fucking long, and yet he's walking out with a large grin and unzipped pants. Puck and his fucking libido.

"You've got to be kidding me? And where's the damn coffee?"

"Dude, you can't yell at _Le Puck_ because he's got mad and incredibly charming skills," he says as he reaches Santana and leans casually against the wall. "Anyone would think you're jealous, Lopez."

Santana rolls her eyes. "You literally repulse me, Puckerman. And I guess _I'll_ go get the coffee then."

"Ouch," Puck grabs his chest dramatically and groans. "That hurt."

"Tough shit. You're not my type." Santana brushes past him and curves the wall before heading towards the venue.

"What, blonde, blue-eyed and leggy?"

She grimaces and throws him a scowl. "Fuck you, Puckerman."

Warmth greets her as she enters the venue and several dark clothed bodies glide in front of her. To her left there's a small lit up booth with a man hunched over studying something intently in front of him, and to her right there's a door with _Foyer_ written above it in neon lights. She heads towards the door and pushes open gently, scanning the area and seeing a small concession stand at the end of the hallway.

It only takes a few seconds to get there, and she reaches inside her pocket and picks out a few quarters, placing them on the counter and ordering a Latte. Her fingers tap restlessly on the top of the counter as she leans against it, ankles crossed and eyes landing on Sam who's talking to Artie at the top of the corridor. The smaller man is standing in a wife beater and black sweat pants and is sporting a lovely shiny layer of sweat above his brow.

She swallows thickly and spares a glance at Sam, who's currently locked onto the smaller man, his hands moving in front of him, explaining his words. There's something strange about the way they're talking, it's intense and too serious for two people that have literally _just_ met. Santana sees Sam raise his arm and point towards his left, but she can't see as the wall curves around and she's on the wrong side. He's been funny with Santana, not like amusing funny, but off with her ever since he found out about her sexuality. Even the night they watched the game, his body never fully relaxed and something about the way he glares at her every now and then makes her shudder.

The man behind the counter mumbles and places her coffee in front of her, and she stands straight and stretches out her hand in search of the cup while her eyes are still trained on the two men. But when her fingers don't meet the Styrofoam cup, she finally tears her eyes away and glances to the vacant coffee spot.

Santana jerks backwards when she sees a pale hand grasping the white cup she'd been searching for. There's another pale hand with perfectly slender fingers stirring the beverage with a wooden stick slowly, and Santana doesn't need to see the person's face to know who it is. So instead, she fixes her eyes on the red and yellow zigzag-patterned carpet as she scuffs her shoe along it.

"Shouldn't you be drinking tea? You know how coffee affects you, San," Brittany asks softly.

Santana crosses her arms and looks up reluctantly, taking in the full extent, or should she say lack off, Brittany's outfit.

"Shouldn't you be on stage? You know how much you've worked for your job," she retorts firmly.

Brittany moves closer in her tight blue hot pants, dark green halter neck bra and golden calf-length boots with red swirls going up the side. Santana's pretty sure with Brittany looking like this, she's either going to pass out or run off. Neither of which seem plausible. Brittany pushes the cup towards Santana and looks at her expectantly.

"I've already added the cream," Brittany says, gesturing to the two open pouches on top of the counter. "So you don't fall asleep on the job.

It breaks Santana out of her daze and she feels anger bubbling up inside of her. Why the hell is she being so damn friendly? And why the hell is she making her coffee?

"Why aren't you on stage?" She grabs the cup and spins on her heels, heading the way she came as she asks it. "You were late and you're just getting later. The crowd's gonna be pissed."

"The crowd can wait."

"Sure," Santana continues, taking a tentative sip of the coffee and inwardly wincing at the bitter taste. What she wouldn't do for Starbucks right now.

"Why do you keep walking away from me?" Brittany asks in a small voice as she quickens her pace to match Santana's walk. It's not like she needs to with the length of those legs, but right now Santana's kind of _storming_ her way down the corridor.

"Why does it matter?"

"Santana," Brittany says in that soft fucking voice _again_. But something catches her off guard and she spins on instinct, eyes studying the blonde's face in an intense examination. She sees it. It's not much, but she was _always_ able to see it. No length of time can take away that particular skill away from her.

She moves towards the blonde who had stopped a few steps back and pushes her coffee cup into a passing stranger's hand. "What's wrong?"

Brittany looks away and her eyes turn glossy as unshed tears brim beneath them. Concern washes through Santana, affecting every bone and fiber within her, and she subconsciously brushes the back of her fingers against Brittany's cheeks. Chocolate eyes briefly lock with sapphire ones and she swallows thickly, realizing her intimate actions and steps away. _Remember the job._

"What's wrong?" she repeats in a firmer tone.

Brittany shuffles her weight to the other leg and fiddles with the cuticles on her nails. Santana can tell she's nervous and upset, and the blonde _never_ gets nervous and upset, so now the brunette's panicking. Without caring anymore, she steps forward and slides her hand down the dancer's bare arm, grazing against her inner wrist with her fingertips. The urge to lace their fingers together is almost unbearable, but she somehow manages to restrain herself.

Brittany's eyes dart around the room and gulps loudly. Santana's heart squeezes painfully at the way the blonde looks and the near overwhelming urge to wrap the blonde up in a tight hug burns through her muscles. When blue eyes finally settle on brown, she knows she's going to hate what's coming next. And she does.

"I got another letter."


	9. chapter eight

**Title: **The Bodyguard [Chapter Eight]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>AN: **The biggest thanks to sapphiccharmer for beta'ing this chapter!  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>15800

* * *

><p><em>When blue eyes finally settle on brown, she knows she's going to hate what's coming next. And she does.<em>

"_I got another letter."_

Santana swallows hard and takes a deep breath. Fear and anger burn through her veins and she hates the thought of Brittany being in danger.

"Where is it?" she asks desperately. "Where did you find it?"

"On my dressing room table."

That _freak_, that _psycho_ was inside Brittany's dressing room while Santana was floundering outside, worrying about her own fucking feelings and not about Brittany's, despite it being her goddamn job. God, she's so fucking selfish.

Santana gulps audibly. "Does anyone else know?"

Brittany shakes her head, and before she can do anything, her body has taken control and she tugs Brittany by the wrist down the hallway, to where she can only assume the blonde's dressing room is.

Puck emerges out of nowhere and raises an eyebrow, wondering what the hell he just walked in on. "What's up, Lopez?"

"Nothing."

It seems her tone came across the way she hoped because Puck was slowly backing away a few steps, following about a yard behind. When they reach Sam and Artie, Santana turns expectantly and the blonde girl points to her left. It doesn't pass Santana that the door Brittany's pointing at is also the door someone _else_ was pointing at only moments before. Her eyes lock with Sam's and she sees panic gliding behind them.

Artie pushes past Santana as soon as Brittany lowers her arms and he wraps his arms around the dancers waist, pulling their bodies flush against one another. Piping hot jealously pours through Santana and she clenches her fists, grinds her teeth and sees nothing but red. Sam grabs her by the wrist and tugs lightly, causing her attention to turn to him, but the rage doesn't disappear. Now it's just directed at the blonde man.

"_What?_" she hisses.

Sam retracts his hand. "What's going on?"

"Britt got another letter."

The blonde man's face falls completely, and the blood completely drains out of it. "Holy shit."

Santana wants to say '_really genius?',_ but she knows lashing out isn't the most productive thing to do, so instead she settles for a nod. "Stay here and make sure no one comes in or out of this dressing room, okay?"

It seems Sam wants to question Santana, but the ferocity she knows that's burning behind her eyes sway him, and he stands straight, hand grasping the handle of his gun and takes his place by the dressing room door. She swirls around and sees Artie rubbing his hands up and down Brittany's arms in a soothing manner. The red is still blurring her vision and she doesn't even take the male dancer into consideration as she cups the blonde's wrist and yanks her into the dressing room, shutting the door loudly behind her.

"Where is it?"

Brittany looks like she's about to cry, and it takes everything Santana has not to comfort her right then and there and just wrap the blonde up in her arms, making sure no one could ever touch her. Fuck, it just isn't fair. But after a few seconds the other girl juts her chin towards the vanity table, and Santana zooms in on the small envelope laying above it, half-open.

"Did you read it?" she asks as she heads towards the table.

Brittany steps closer and Santana feels the atmosphere around her spark with electricity; something that always happened when Brittany was around her. Years after being separated, Santana thinks time would've had some type of effect on the way they were, but it seems it only renewed it.

"I opened it and saw writing and remembered the other letters. They looked the same and I didn't want to read it without you." Brittany takes a seat on the stool next to the table and shoves her clasped hands between her knees. "So I came to find you instead."

Santana tries to ignore the hope that flutters through her stomach as she listens to Brittany say '_I didn't want to read it without you_,' because she knows it's _just _her job. Of course Brittany wouldn't want to read it without her, Santana's the Head of Security, and should be notified if there's any progress on the psycho's movements. It's just the job.

"Okay." Santana gingerly picks up the envelope after withdrawing a handkerchief. It's old fashioned but forensic science isn't. "Do you mind if I read it?"

Brittany shakes her head. "No, go ahead."

There's something resembling nerves bubbling in the pit of her stomach, and she hates the way it's for Brittany. Two years did absolutely nothing towards her feelings, two years later and she's still concerned, she's still worrying constantly, and still hopelessly in love. Isn't time supposed to heal all wounds? Or is that just some more philosophical bullshit?

She slides the card out with covered fingers and places it on top of the envelope. With a deep inhale of air, she flips it open and scans the lettering from side to side.

**Be wary of your surroundings.**

"What does it mean?"

Suddenly she feels hot breath against her ear and inwardly jerks away. Brittany's close, _too _close for her liking, and Santana turns her head slightly to see blue eyes trained on the envelope. It's slightly relieving, knowing the blonde's only this close because of the envelope. But she can't shake the small disappointment that settles in her stomach.

She's suddenly aware that now she's just staring at Brittany, faces only inches apart and still hasn't replied. On cue, the blonde turns and then they're staring at each other. Brittany's hot breath is blanketing the right side of her face, and by the way the blonde shudders with every exhalation, she assumes hers is hitting Brittany's jaw.

It's all too much. Brittany's been too close to her, she's been too friendly and it's not fair. Brittany's acting as if they're friends, like nothing happened between them and it's not fucking fair. Santana's her _employee. _She's only looking out for the other girl's well-being because it's her _job._ Anything past that disappeared the day the blonde walked out. And as much as it pains Santana to think, no, as much as it pains Santana to _know_ that, it's true. Employee and boss – the extent of their relationship.

Santana steps away until her butt hits the counter and she leans against it, now facing the quizzical blonde. She needs to get back into business mode; she's been too cavalier for the past few weeks she's been here. She knows it, but she doesn't know how to change. It'd never been serious around Brittany.

Brittany had always been her relief, always her good end to a bad day when she snuck in and slid into bed next to the blonde, hugging her from behind and letting all her stress melt away with a single kiss. It had always been like that. Note, _had._ Past tense. And she knows she needs to do her job properly, not let her emotions take over her and focus on what's in her job description. She has become emotionless once, she sure as hell can do it again.

"You've got a show that you should've been on stage about," Santana checks her watch, "A half an hour ago."

Brittany bites her bottom lip nervously. "I'm scared, San. What if he's out there?"

That possibility hadn't come to mind. And suddenly Santana panics and sees panic flash before Brittany's eyes. What if he's out there? Assuming it's a _he _and all. What if that psycho's just standing outside with sick thoughts about Brittany? What if he's smirking and watching her flawless body move in rhythm with the beat, drooling and hardening down below with every second passing by? It's sick. And it sends the irrational urge to punch something through her muscles. Preferably the sick freak. But a wall will do as well.

The taller girl's eyes start to water and Brittany dips her head, trying to disguise the tears. All Santana wants to do is lock them up in a room, where that _freak_ can't hurt Brittany, and comfort her until the psycho is dead, because that's the only way she's ever going to find peace of mind.

She moves instinctively and places herself in front of the dancer, crouching down and subconsciously leaning into the blonde's personal space. Her hand rises and brushes against Brittany's jawline, lingering a little longer than necessary until blue eyes look deep into brown.

"I'm here to protect you B, I'll keep you safe."

There's no doubt in Brittany's eyes, only complete trust, and she leans into Santana's touch and closes her eyes. It's painful. Really fucking painful. But despite her mind yelling to get away, to run out the door and never look back, her body has different ideas and she strokes her thumb across Brittany's cheek, marveling at the silky soft touch and renewing the sight of caramel and cream skin mixing together.

And then they're staring deeply into each other's eyes. Brittany's eyes dart down to Santana's lips, and she licks them in response. It's stupid. Brittany shouldn't have this effect on her anymore, time should've changed it. But the pull inside Santana's chest tells her different and suddenly she's leaning in, with no regard for her battered, broken heart. And for a moment, just a moment, nothing hurts anymore.

"_Miss Pierce, you're on in five."_

They jump apart, Santana half-throwing herself across the room until her back hits the hall, and Brittany straightening her back and looking slightly flustered. The reality of what they were about to do hits Santana and her heart hurts again. It's beating fast, yet cracking slowly. It's a warped torture that doesn't seem to dull as she tries to focus on something else. _Anything _else.

The job. Right.

"Miss Pierce, you should get going," Santana states, firmly.

"But San-"

"No," Santana interrupts, sliding towards the door and leaving her hand to rest on the handle. "Your fans are waiting."

She's can't avoid seeing the hurt expression that crosses Brittany's face and she turns towards the door, resting her forehead against the panel of the door and squeezing her eyes shut. It doesn't work like that. _Santana's_ hurt. Not Brittany. So why the fuck does she feel guilty?

"I don't care."

Santana turns her head slightly, only allowing blue eyes to burn her profile. "You should. This is your life now."

And before she can hear a response, her legs have led her out the door and down the hallway, so she completely misses the _'Doesn't mean I want it to be'_ that escapes Brittany's mouth.

* * *

><p>"Fabray!"<p>

Santana starts into a slow jog and approaches the blonde, who's talking with one of the back stage crew. She sends the man a scowl and he immediately darts off, leaving Quinn to stand alone with an eyebrow raised.

"You know my job was a lot easier before you came along," Quinn says as she lowers the folders and grips it in front of her body. "Maybe even my life, too."

"Bite me Fabray." Santana spots the crew person talking with Rachel over Quinn's shoulder and narrows her eyes. "What's Berry doing here?

As soon as the word _Berry_ leaves her mouth she sees hazel eyes brighten. It immediately catches her eye and then it clicks. Oh my God, Puck was right.

"Rachel?" Quinn asks desperately. "Where?"

Santana arches and eyebrow and grins knowingly. "Over there. Flirting away with one of the backstage crew."

She knows teasing Quinn isn't the nicest thing to do but hey, who said she couldn't have fun? So she nudges the blonde with her arm and leans in. "Earlier I saw her with Puck."

Quinn whips her head around and narrows her eyes at Santana. For a second she's scared that the blonde figured out her plan, but instead she plays it cool.

"Really?"

Santana nods. "Word is they're getting it on."

She watches as Quinn shakes her head from side to side, trying not to look affected by Santana's lie. It'd always been easy to be friends with Quinn, mostly because Santana was the one that always took the piss and teased her. Sometimes it was strange thinking she'd never had any feelings for the blonde, then again, there was always another blonde. Her blonde. Damn it.

"She hasn't said anything to me," Quinn says, her eyes trained intently on the small brunette.

Santana arches an eyebrow playfully and watches Quinn. She's never seen the blonde like this, so infatuated with someone. So _into_ someone. It's scary. "Why would she?"

Quinn visibly panics. Her eyes widen comically and Santana can almost see the way the adrenaline is rushing around the blonde's veins. Her face is pale and even though what she's doing is pretty mean, hell, it's funny as shit.

"Yo, guys!"

Santana turns her head and leaves Quinn to ponder her question. Sam's jogging up to them, his hands dug deep into his pockets and shoulders squared. It looks pretty uncomfortable but hey, it's not Santana running.

"Hey Sam," Quinn says cheerfully. A little too cheerfully and Santana can see the effect she's had on the blonde. It pretty damn satisfying and she hasn't smiled like this in a while. But it soon fades away as Sam slows to a stop beside the two women.

"Sam," she deadpans with a quick nod.

He shoots her a small smile and then turns to Quinn. "Have you seen Puckerman?"

Quinn's lower lips fold over and she shakes her head. "Nope, not for a while."

"He was outside last time I saw him," Santana interjects, wanting to seem helpful but knowing it'll get Sam away quicker.

When the blonde man arrived it wasn't bad, but there was something off about his reaction to her sexuality that made her question the boy she's known for years. It could be her military training, but she doesn't like whatever it is.

"Oh, okay cool."

Sam turns and walks away but Quinn stops him by tugging at his wrist. The action seems strange, but there's something quizzical in the blonde's expression that makes Santana not want to disagree. So she doesn't.

"Why?"

Sam cocks his head to the side slightly. "Just needed something from him."

Quinn lets go after a few seconds and then turns to Santana, probably in attempt to restart their conversation. But there's something in the way Sam says it that makes Santana want to push the issue further. It seems like he's nervous, or hiding something, and either thought makes her even more uneasy.

"What do you need to get from him? I'm about to go outside so I'll get it."

Sam looks hesitant for a second but then shrugs. "Okay," he says. "Just ask for JP."

Santana furrows her brows but doesn't say anything more. After all, she doesn't want to seem too suspicious. Sam nods at her and walks away, so she gives Quinn a quick 'goodbye' and heads outside.

Puck's leaning against the car door with a cigar in hand when she approaches him. It didn't surprise her to see that he smokes, well cigars anyway, so when she gets to him she takes it out of his hand and takes a deep drag.

"Hey," he says, eyeing up the cigar. "Please, help yourself."

The smoke is heavier than Santana's used to, and she feels the start of a cough bubble in her chest but she pushes it down. Thank God. Otherwise that would've been pretty damn embarrassing.

"Don't mind if I do," she replies with a smile. "Oh, by the way, Sam asked for JP?"

Puck shoots her a quizzical expression but then shrugs and reaches into his pocket. She's expecting something elaborate, or anything interesting – except what she receives is probably the last thing she thought of.

"Cologne?" she says, eyebrows up by her hairline as she examines the small bottle in her hand. "JP is cologne?"

Puck takes the cigar back and nods slowly. "Well, yeah."

It's strange. Mostly because Sam seemed quite reluctant to tell Santana what he wanted. Why the hell would he be hesitant about damn aftershave? It just doesn't make any sense.

"Oh." She lifts the cap and brings it to her nose, smelling it quickly. It's familiar. She's smelt that before. Her mind flickers back and it clicks. She knows it from the pool house. A few weeks ago, when she walked in and smelt it… Sam. Holy shit. Sam has more to do with this than he's letting out. Why the hell didn't she see it before?

Puck jabs her in the arm lightly and she jerks forward, dropping the glass bottle. She's about to let out a sentence full of Spanish curses, expecting the sound of glass breaking to cause it, but her eyes fall on a tanned hand grasping the bottle. She looks up and sees Puck smiling at her. Damn, he's fast.

"Watch out Lopez," he smirks. "Sam's gonna be pissed if he doesn't get that. He loves that stuff."

There's more to Sam than everyone knows. And Santana's going to find out what it is.

"Yeah. I'm sure he does."

* * *

><p>Santana almost punches a wall when she sees Artie slide onto the stage, his hands gliding up Brittany's body in time with the music. Quinn is standing next to her, arms at the ready to hold her back just in case, by her request – well more of a demand, really.<p>

"Relax, Lopez," Quinn mumbles. "She's fine."

"What if he leaps out at her?"

Quinn tilts her head to the side. "As if. She's fine. And she will be for the rest of the show."

"How do you know?" Santana looks towards the stage where Brittany's sauntering to the front, dragging her hands up her body and dipping down low, only inches away from the crowd. The move makes Santana's mouth run dry, and she's pretty damn glad the lights are dim otherwise Quinn would be saying _told you so_ over and over.

"I mean look at her, she's like a foot away from the crowd. Anyone could grab her."

Brittany glides back, her body moving with the beat as her hand slides around one of the back-up dancers necks. Watching one of these shows means Santana seriously needed a hell of a lot of restraint, and it's pretty hard to do when Brittany is grinding up on several dancers. The urge to rip off their hands burns through her body, but instead she turns to Quinn quickly, keeping one eye trained on the dancing blonde at all times.

"They won't," Quinn shrugs non-chalantly. The confidence behind her words almost puts Santana off.

"How do you know?"

Quinn takes off her glasses and folds them, clipping them into the top of her shirt and leaving them to dangle. "Because you're here."

Santana arches an eyebrow while Brittany heads off stage to change outfits, and suddenly she panics. What if the psycho's back there? Shit.

"There's someone backstage right?" she asks, her voice firm and serious.

"Puck and Sam are there. They've got it. Chill, Lopez."

Relief washes through her. But then she thinks back to her and Quinn's previous comment and her eyebrows crease together. "What did you mean? Because I'm here?"

Quinn grins from ear to ear, and there's something eminently annoying about it. "Bodyguard? Duh. Why, what were you thinking?" she continues teasingly.

Santana jabs the blonde in the arm lightly and receives a chuckle. "Shut up, Fabray. You know this is just business."

"Business, my ass."

"Woah, look who strapped on a pair. Nothing to do with someone dwarf-sized and incredibly annoying is it?"

Quinn whips her head around and her eyes widen. "What?"

"Oh come on, Fabray," Santana says with a smirk. "You couldn't be more obvious if a neon sign hovered above your freakin' head."

The blonde straightens up and turns back to the stage. Santana glances back quickly and sees Brittany at the side, her make-up being touched up and a hair stylist fluffing up her hair. She hates that people can touch her so non-chalantly, just brushing her hair back or helping her down the stairs. Santana hates it. She knew what perfection lay beneath her fingertips every time her skin came in contact with Brittany's. She knew how precious every touch and moment was with Brittany, and she lost that privilege. She lost that fucking amazing privilege and everyone else just seems so damn cavalier about it.

And now she's standing talking with her once good friend about pretending not to want something. It's stupid, but it makes her hurt even more. Sure, up until now she's been joking with Quinn about Rachel, but Santana spent enough time pretending not to want Brittany, and look where it's got her.

"I don't know what you're talking about Santana," Quinn says lightly.

Santana frowns. "Look, Quinn." The blonde turns to her. "Don't take it for granted. If you want Berry, just go for it."

Their conversation stops for a few seconds and Santana hears the crowd cheer as Brittany walks back on stage, brimming with happiness. She sighs. Brittany was always happiest when she was dancing, and now, dancing and being loved for it must mean she's in her element. There was only one other thing that could ever make Brittany look like this; eyes bright and smile wide, and Santana knew that thing _incredibly_ well. Mostly because it came in the form of a five foot something Latina with fiery brown eyes and a military trained background.

"Santan-"

"No," she interrupts, lifting her hand. "Don't say anything. Just listen to my advice and think."

Quinn frowns. "But it's not the same."

"You're right," Santana agrees, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. "I don't have a chance anymore. You do."

Something softens in Quinn's features and Santana can see there's not going to be any objection. So she raises her hand and places it on the blonde's shoulder in a reassuring manner. Hazel eyes lock with dark brown and they both smile.

She and Quinn's relationship hadn't always been an easy one. During high school they'd had their ups and downs, but all in all they'd ended up alright. And despite Berry being the bane of her existence, if she made Quinn happy, who she figures is the closest thing she has to a best friend right now, then so be it.

She sighs and returns back to watching the blue eyed blonde, which instantly makes her heart melt.

"You're wrong, you know."

Santana furrows her brows and turns her head slightly to acknowledge Quinn's words, but doesn't meet her eyes.

"You and Britt," Quinn elaborates. "You do have a chance."

She turns and narrows her eyes. "Qu-"

But then she hears it. She hears the one thing she wished never to hear in her lifetime. A blood-curling shriek that came from a mouth so perfect, it could've only been created by angels. Santana whips her head around, panic flashing through her body so fast that she has to blink to clear the white blurring her eyes.

"SANTANA!"

For a second, she's frozen. Her legs lock in place as her eyes scan the area for whoever called her name. Her breathing is dangerously fast; her blood is pumping around her body so hard she can hear it like a drum next to her ear. It's like she's paralyzed. Her brain wills her body to move, to get her legs to pump, but they won't. And then Santana sees it.

Brittany is no longer elevated above the crowd. She's crouched, and Santana focuses on a manly hand grasping onto her bicep. A million different scenarios play in her head. None of them are good, and she almost feels her heart stop with every single one.

Wide, panicked, blue eyes lock with worried brown and before she knows it, Santana's grasping the handle of her gun and at the ready. Then it dawns on her she's in a public event so she can't use a firearm, or even un-holster it for that matter.

A fire extinguisher catches her eye and she launches for it, gripping it tightly between her strong hands and aiming it to the backs of the pushing crowd. Putting all her strength behind it, she barges through the crowd. She doesn't turn when Quinn calls her name. Everything is fast and intense, and she can feel the heated bodies bowling out the way as she barrels through them.

"SANTANA!"

This time it's a male voice. She sees Puck standing by the side, waving his hand and pointing the other to Brittany, who's being tugged further and further into the crowd. The sudden irrational urge to smash Puck's head in burns through her veins as she ponders why he isn't helping her, but she doesn't even bother focusing on the thought at the moment.

A body prevents her from moving any further, and she looks up to see a large man with a figure bigger than Karofsky, standing over her with fiery green eyes. It doesn't take her longer than two seconds before she's using the base of the extinguisher to ram him in the stomach and then smash him on the head with it until he topples to the ground.

A sudden wave of satisfaction blurs through her and for a second, and she wishes Karofsky was there to witness that so he would back the hell down, but her protection instincts kick in and she continues sliding through the bodies.

Her jacket only weighs her down. When someone grabs the lapels of it, she slips out of it and wraps it around the person's head and brings their head down to her knee. With a satisfying crunch, a wail escapes the attacker's lips and she's off again. The crowd is getting thicker by the second and she ducks into a crouch, tucking another person's legs over her shoulder and flipping into the several bodies around her.

And then Brittany's there, covered in hands and eyes wide and frightened as she hangs half-off the stage.

"S-San," the blonde sobs loudly. "P-Please."

The voice in the back of her mind repeats her protection promise, and it does nothing but fuel Santana's anger bubbling violently in the pit of her stomach. Her hand slaps onto a muscular forearm and she tears it away, bending it back awkwardly until it clicks and drops limply out of her grasp. Santana can feel Brittany's horrified expression as she lunges for another body part tugging roughly at the blonde's limbs and does the same, but it doesn't matter. Brittany's in danger and that's all that's running through her mind.

With the last painful click and suspected broken limb, Santana reaches Brittany and the blonde immediately wraps her toned, shaking arms around the Latina's neck, sobbing heavily into her roughed-up white shirt. She can't prevent her body from reacting, because it's been years since she's been touched by Brittany like _this. _Her hands find the small, bare back of the dancer and she pulls their bodies closer together.

Everything that has spiraled between the two doesn't matter. Nothing matters in this moment, and for a second, literally the tiniest of moments, Santana wishes it was just them, wrapped up in each other with nothing around them. But that's not true, and it sinks in almost immediately.

Tanned hands find pale cheeks and cup them carefully. She brings Brittany's face up until their staring one another deeply in the eye, faces inches apart and breaths mingling in the space between.

"We need to get out of her," Santana says firmly. "We need to get out of here now."

She knows Brittany can't respond. The sheer state of horror on the dancers face could probably give that away, but Santana knows it's because of how well she knows Brittany.

So instead she adds, "Nod if you understand," and receives a nod.

Her arms slip underneath Brittany's body, one hooking underneath the dancer's strong knees and the other supporting her back. Due to her experience in the military, lugging the blonde about is nothing. She's used to carrying backpacks that weighed twice as much as Brittany, so she does it with ease. She leans in close, her breath blanketing the blonde's body, and her legs almost stop working as she inhales the heavenly coconut and vanilla scent. It swarms her head and she feels her eyes flutter shut as her chest expands.

"Hang on tight," Santana mumbles after exhaling heavily. "Nod if you can hear me."

She feels Brittany nod and shudder as she exhales again. Suddenly her heart is no longer beating dangerously fast from the adrenaline. Brittany presses her forehead to Santana's collarbone. One hand slides around her neck, while the other grabs the collar of her white shirt, clutching it tightly and burying her nose deep into her skin. Santana barges through the crowd, throwing her elbows left and right as hard as she can without affecting Brittany.

An intense crash burns into her ribs, and she almost crumbles under the pressure. She turns around and sees the man from before, the one she'd taken down, standing before her with a furious shade in his eyes. Even though her immediate reaction would be to assume this is the psycho they've been searching for, her gut tells her different, and she doesn't take a second thought before she shuffles her weight onto one leg and thrusts her other forward. The ball of her foot lands just below the man's sternum and he staggers backwards with a large _oomph._

The surrounding people bumble into her as she lifts Brittany higher and slides through the crowd. In the corner of her eye she sees a pale hand waving frantically, and she spins to see Kurt with wide eyes trying to get her attention. Blaine's standing next to him, and she knows they need and exit - and fast. The front and back doors would be filled with paparazzi, so those aren't options. She then thinks of another exit.

Santana mouths '_side door'_ to him, and he disappears a second later with Blaine in hand. She receives another punch to the rib and this time she actually _does_ stumble, half dropping Brittany until the blonde's feet are planted on the floor. Concern washes through her body, and she whips her head around to see blue eyes concealed behind tightly squeezed lids. Pale hands make their way around her waist to the loops on Santana's pants, and she flinches as Brittany's fingers graze a slither of skin showing between her clothing.

Instinctively, one of her hands snakes around to grip the side of the dancer's hip, coming in contact with her bare skin and she shudders. Right now is _not_ the time to go all lightheaded, so she turns her attention to the figure behind her; the one that had delivered the punch. She was tough and all, but he does carry one hell of a right hook.

"Stay the fuck away from her," Santana growls through gritted teeth. "I mean it."

The man bulks up his chest, still clutching his abs from her previous blow. Satisfaction pours through her body and she smirks at him, clenching her free fist tightly by her leg.

"Give me the girl," he hisses, stepping forward and grasping one of Santana's shirt lapels. "Just hand the slut over."

Anger flashes through her and all she can see is red. Her arm starts shaking and she flares her nostrils as she tries to breathe out some of the anger. All of her blood ascends and her face grows hot with fury. This fucking guy calling Brittany a slut. This fucking guy who knows _nothing_ about Brittany. Fuck. She's never been so damn angry before. But then she feels hot breath tickle the back of her neck, and her body stands rigid.

A great percentage of the fury seeps away as Brittany leans in gently to her body. "Calm down, San," Brittany rasps out, her voice laced with fear and reassurance. "Please."

Something washes over her entire being and it feels like a cold shower after a hot summer's day. Her neck turns instinctively and she's immediately captured by those eyes; those shockingly pure crystal blue orbs that she could swim in for hours, and it feels like a knife into her heart and it fucking hurts.

But the emotional pain is quickly replaced by an intense physical one as a hard, powerful fist cracks across her head. She jolts backwards, clutching her temple and feeling it throb heavily, warm liquid oozing from her eyebrow. Her arm immediately wipes it, and she glances quickly at her sleeve covered in red liquid and tries to ignore the way her body is reacting to the pain. Her vision is momentarily blurred but she quickly lashes out, swiping her right hook under the man's chin and then straight into the nose, where he falls to the floor with his eyes rolling back in his head.

It doesn't take long until Santana sweeps Brittany up once more, feeling her body ease at her touch. Her legs immediately bolt her towards the side door, where she kicks it open and is immediately greeted by a large black limo and Kurt standing with a feared expression and a huge yellow umbrella. Subtle.

"Lopez." The door swings open and Puck steps out. "Get in."

His eyes are locked onto the blonde in Santana's arms and she nods, clenching her jaw as she ducks and shuffles into the back of the limo with Brittany still in her arms. One of her hands curves around Brittany's thigh, securing the dancer to her lap while she brushes the back of her knuckles along Brittany's face, pushing back the hair and marveling at the silky soft touch. It's hard to believe that even after all this time, Brittany can still make her feel the best and the worst that she possibly can.

Puck shuffles in next to her and his eyes do a once over on Brittany. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Santana replies, gently trailing Brittany's jawline with her finger. "She'll be fine."

Puck seems to sense her dismissive tone and settles back into the limo, tapping the side to signify Kurt to pull away. Within seconds, the car pulls out of the alley and turns down the road, the soft humming of the engine settling Santana's body as her eyes fixate on Brittany in her arms. She lets her head fall back against the headrest and she feels Brittany shuffle further into her, nuzzling her face into the crook of her neck and releasing small snores.

And for now, all she needs is for Brittany to be safe and asleep in her arms.

* * *

><p>It's 11 P.M. when Kurt pulls up in front of the fountain, and her head is swimming and sore. What was supposed to be a simple show turned into a full on riot. Stupid assholes thinking it's okay to grab Brittany. Who would even think that was a good idea? Well, they got what was coming to them anyway. Despite the consistent throbbing, it actually felt good to be able to feel something, to ensure that she wasn't completely numb. Even if it did come in the form of a pretty damn powerful punch.<p>

But now, as she climbs out of the back of the limo with Brittany still asleep in her arms, she kind of wishes she'd thrown a few more punches. The anger and hurt had built up inside her for so long and she hadn't even thought about getting a release of some sort, and she'd missed her opportune moment. Damn it. As she heads up the stairs, Brittany's leg bounces against her rib and she inhales sharply as the imprint of that asshole's knuckles burns into her skin.

"San?" Brittany whispers, her nose brushing up the length of Santana's collarbone.

Santana's legs nearly buckle under the touch, her body shudders involuntarily and her lids flutter shut. It takes a few seconds, but she manages to regain the strength to push up the remaining steps and cross the threshold into Brittany's mansion.

"I'm here," she responds reluctantly. It's not like she doesn't want to talk to Brittany because damn, she does. She's been waiting years to speak to her, but not like this… not this close. It's all too much and God knows what will come out her mouth if she talks now.

Santana turns around in the foyer and gives Kurt a quick nod, and he and Blaine head down the stairs and drive away. Puck's still following and fuck knows where Karofsky is. Did they leave him at the club? A small chuckle escapes her lips but she rubs her head against her shoulder, trying to conceal it. Instead, she gets a shot of pain ripping through her face from her cut. That's going to hurt in the morning.

She proceeds to the bottom of the stairs silently with Puck close behind, but a pressure to the small of her back causes her to stop.

"Maybe you should put her to bed," Puck says after a minute. "Alone."

She swallows and takes a deep breath, and looks up the stairs and then back to Puck. "Okay."

"Okay?" he repeats warily, his face showing he knows she's not entirely sure.

Santana nods affirmatively and moves Brittany further up her arms as she begins to slip from her grasp. "Yeah."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure," she replies, blinking and taking a breath before walking up the stairs.

The small thud of the door closing tells her Puck left, and she's suddenly aware of how quiet the house is. Her phone buzzes in her pocket as she turns down the long hallway, looking from door to door in search of Brittany's room. She's been there before, sure, but in the dark it's pretty damn hard see anything. Especially with a 115 lbs woman in her arms.

She gives up after a few doors, finding nothing but dance studios and relaxation rooms, Brittany-style. Brittany-style being bright yellow, floor covered in mattresses and pillows, half-empty coffee cups, and popcorn packets spread across various counters. Memories of nights spent with the blonde in her apartment with similar objects scattered about pass through her mind and she smiles before the dull ache attacks her chest again.

At the end of the corridor she kicks open a door quietly to find a room with a double bed in it. The bed sheets aren't crumpled and from what she can make out its empty, so she decides to leave Brittany here for the night. It's better than walking around at God knows what time trying to find her damn room. She's a bodyguard, not a damn slave.

Santana lowers the dancer down onto the bed, one knee on the bed and the other foot planted firmly on the ground as she does so. A blanket is to the left, folded neatly on the countertop and Santana reaches over, draping it across the blonde's half naked body. Brittany's eyes are shut and her chest is moving up and down lightly, a soft snore accompanying it. Santana knows from years of practice that the blonde's sleeping comfortably, and she decides, despite it being foolish, to sit on the bed and just watch Brittany for a bit. It's creepy, sure, but she hasn't spent more than a minute looking at the dancer, and after two years, she needs to get it out of her system.

But when Brittany rolls over and throws her arms across Santana's lap, she flinches. Her body stands rigid and she can feel all her senses heightening. With a gentle touch, she snakes her slender fingers underneath Brittany's toned arm and lifts gently, pushing it off of her body as she slides off the bed and places it on the comforter.

It's been so long since she's seen Brittany at such peace. She used to spend hours on end just watching her sleep, leaning on one elbow and letting her fingers trace _I love you_ in invisible patterns on the blonde's skin. It was always a relief, like a massage or meditation. There was something just so damn therapeutic about Brittany, and it pains Santana to think it's not as simple as it used to be, and sure as hell isn't as easy.

She tiptoes over to the door and stands in the doorframe, leaning against as she takes one final glance at the blonde. Grudgingly, she turns and goes to pull the door closed. She's halfway out when she hears the rustling of sheets behind her as Brittany calls out a sleepy, "Santana?"

She takes a step back and hovers in the doorway once more. "Yeah?"

Brittany squints her eyes and runs a hand over her face. It's almost so adorable that Santana has to look away. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the pool house," Santana informs her.

Brittany breathes out a sigh and lifts her head off of the pillow, propping herself onto her elbow. "Do you…" she hesitates, and even Santana can see this in the darkness. "Can you stay? Please?"

She doesn't know what's leading her to do so, but she's heading towards the bed before she can take back her actions. Brittany smiles lightly, and in the darkness it seems to beam brighter than ever. With a quick kick, her shoes are off and she tugs off her shirt, throwing it over the back of the armchair. There's something horribly familiar about this situation and it only becomes more real as she feels blue eyes burning into her body. Something hitches in her throat and she hovers awkwardly by the bed, not entirely sure of what to do next.

It seems Brittany senses this because she tugs at Santana's wrist, causing a spiral of fire to shoot up her arm at the touch and she's suddenly being pulled down on the bed, her limbs tangling with Brittany's just like they'd done so many times before. She wants to tug away from the blonde, get up and scream at Brittany that it's not fair. She can't do this to her when _Brittany_ left, not Santana, _Brittany._ She's not the one that's spent the last two years hurting and wishing a single misfired bullet would take away her life. Brittany can't act as if nothing happened, because it sure as hell did. And Santana's battered heart is living proof of it.

But the warmth is too inviting. Her body is giving into it and a fiery touch surges through where their bodies touch. Her hands relax, curling around Brittany's body and sinking into the feeling. Santana settles down and tells herself as soon as a snore escapes Brittany's lips, she'll leave. But snuggled down in a bed with Brittany, wrapped up in her warmth on a cold night, she doesn't have a chance.

* * *

><p>Santana wakes up at about 3 A.M. She doesn't know what did it, but suddenly her eyes are wide and body jolting up so she's propped up on one elbow. She inhales sharply, remembering the last few seconds before she fell asleep and looks down to the blonde curled up next to her, her back pushing against Santana's body so she's spooning Brittany. Their fingers are laced together in front of Brittany's body, pale and caramel skin swirling together in a delicate art.<p>

It almost hurts to see it, and the cold, empty place deep inside her chest booms at the sheer view. There's rustling and a few thuds coming from downstairs, and her eyes suddenly start aching as she remembers forgetting to take out her contacts. Stealthily, she unwraps herself from Brittany's body, immediately being greeted by the cold sting from the loss of contact and hisses. The urge to climb back into bed and forget about the rustling runs through her mind, but she can't, no, more importantly, she _won't_.

"San," Brittany mumbles, turning in the bed. "Santana."

Santana twists her neck to reply, but then Brittany smacks her lips together lazily and nuzzles her face back into the pillow with a scrunched nose, and Santana realizes she's still asleep. Her heartstrings tug, and she knows she needs so get this done. Get the psycho and get the hell out of here, preferably before she has a mental breakdown.

So she walks back out the bedroom, closing the door quietly and padding down the hallway, shaking her head. There's an uncomfortable dryness in her mouth, like she's had cotton for dinner, and she heads towards the kitchen, rubbing her hand over her eye and feeling the remains of sleep ache in the back of her eyes.

* * *

><p>It's two minutes later and she's leaning against the counter, drumming her fingertips against the top and waiting for the kettle to boil. All she wants is a damn cup of tea, and pronto. She's seconds away from snapping her fingers impatiently and grabbing the bottle of whiskey she knows is underneath the sink, when the back door swings open.<p>

Karofsky steps into the room, face disgruntled and clothes drenched, dripping water onto the linoleum floor.

"Raining, is it?" Santana says amusingly.

She turns when the kettle clicks and reaches over, taking a teabag and plopping it into the cup. Seconds later the water joins it and she reaches into the drawer to her right, grabbing a spoon and stirring it gently as she turns back to Karofsky who's glaring at her.

The steam flowing off the tea shows her it's too hot, so she sets it down and grabs an apple, brushing it off on her wife beater and not even bothering to meet the glare she knows she's receiving. There's something highly comical about the effect she has on Karofsky, and to be honest, it's one of her main forms of entertainment.

"Bitch."

Santana completely disregards him and pushes off the counter, heading towards the one opposite and taking a knife from the drawer. It's weird, but it hurts her teeth when she tries to eat an apple like a normal person. For Santana, eating fruit came at a sharp price.

"I said," Karofsky grunts. "Bitch."

Her face stays void of emotion, and the fact he's trying to insult her barely passes through her mind. Instead, she focuses on the apple and cocks her hip against the countertop, her body facing away from Karofsky's. She slides the knife into the fruit, cutting a slice and flipping it into her mouth with practiced ease. There used to be a game where she'd do it with Brittany, but the memory pains her and she pushes out her brain quickly. Karofsky growls noticeably loud but still, Santana does nothing.

"You fucking deaf or something?"

Santana doesn't want to hear it anymore. Hell, she doesn't have to and frankly Karofsky's boring the crap out of her. So she spares a glance towards him and pushes her body off the counter, heading towards the door, which he blocks as soon as she approaches it. Why the hell doesn't he just let her go?

"Where do you think you're going?" Karofsky spits, some of his _actual_ spit hitting her face. "We're not done talking."

Santana rubs her hand against her cheek and clenches her jaw disgustedly as the fluid is removed, glancing up at him quickly before returning to her apple.

It seems to be the spark to his fuse, and he pushes his palm roughly into her shoulder, jolting her backwards. Santana rolls her eyes and heads back towards the kitchen island, taking seat on the stool and leaning her forearms against the top, resuming to her apple slicing duties. She's remotely aware of him maneuvering around the kitchen, but her mind is elsewhere. Elsewhere might consist of tall, blonde and extremely gorgeous.

She feels the ripple in the atmosphere before Karofsky even lunges, and as he does she pushes away with her feet, skidding backwards with the stool as he stumbles in front of her. It almost makes her laugh that he's trying to hit a girl, but then he twists and his fist comes plummeting through the air towards her. Santana hops off the stool quickly and wraps her arm around the back of his neck, and slamming it against the counter top harshly. The apple settles beside him, wobbling from side to side gently.

Karofsky falls to the ground and flips as if he's about to get up. It's pretty damn funny, and she prevents him by hoisting the stool up in the air and trapping his neck between two of the legs as he wriggles beneath her. He's strong, but Santana's stronger. And she doesn't prevent the smirk that graces her face as she takes a seat on the stool and stairs down at him, leaning her crossed forearms on the back rest.

Brittany wouldn't be pleased with her actions. She can just imagine hearing the sharp intake of breath and the blue eyes that would bore into her head. Of course, Brittany, Brittany, Brittany. That's all that's in Santana's mind.

"Uh, ack," Karofsky struggles to catch his breath as one of the low bars on the stool presses against his throat. "O-ay."

Santana cocks an eyebrow quickly and nods. She doesn't need to cause anymore unnecessary damage. She just wants to go to bed, or down the bottle sitting underneath the sink, just to clear her head. The bottle is sounding more and more appealing, actually. She swings her leg over, pulling the stool away and placing it in front of her once more. The throb in her ribs pounds against her skin and she winces inwardly, trying to push away the dull pain.

The apple is in her palm again, and she kicks back the stool, listening to Karofsky make some over-dramatic gurgling noises as he rubs his throat. She wasn't pushing that hard. Damn pussy. Her mind returns to Brittany as she reaches for the apple and leans with one palm beside the sink, spinning the fruit until Karofsky pushes up. It's not the end, and he sure as hell doesn't make it subtle.

But this time, she doesn't wait and instead punches him straight in the nose, a satisfying cracking coming out from his face as he staggers backwards, clutching his bloody nose and whimpering, "You broke my damn nose!"

Santana rolls her eyes. Who the hell, first of all, tries to hit a girl? Then secondly, tries to take down someone who was in the military? Stupid move. _What the hell was he expecting?_

Another rumble in the atmosphere and brown eyes land on Karofsky's shaking fist, and the recoil burns her own in response. She can't be bothered with him. Frankly, there are other things she could be doing, none of which would help her situation. But there are definitely things she'd _rather _be doing than putting some jack-ass back in his place.

So with a quick flick of her wrist, she throws the small knife she's clutching towards him, and misses his ear by about half a centimeter. His eyes widen comically, and satisfaction flows through her body.

"We're done talking," Santana deadpans, picking up her apple and throwing it into the far trashcan with precision.

It lands with a thud and she turns back to Karofsky, who looks like he's figuring out what to do next.

"Good aim."

The surprise in his voice doesn't catch Santana off-guard, and she pads towards the door.

"Nah," she throws him narrowed glare, "I missed."

And with a horrified expression washing over Karofsky's face, she exits.

* * *

><p>When she's walking up the stairs once more, it suddenly hits her that she has no idea where she's going. It's a muscle memory, automatically gravitating towards wherever the blonde is and she halts, foot raised in the air and fists clenched. She doesn't know what to do; go back to the bedroom and climb back into bed with Brittany? Head back out to the pool house and sleep, worrying about Brittany? Fuck. Every damn option includes Brittany. Stupid job.<p>

It only takes a few seconds before she can wrap her head around the reason for being here. Her job. As a bodyguard. Platonic relationship with Brittany. That's it. She heads down the hallway and reaches out for the handle, hesitating as it feels too damn domestic. Too damn comfortable and too damn familiar.

But then there's Brittany, standing in the doorway looking breathtakingly beautiful, in rolled up sweat pants and a baggy shirt with _Columbia_ written across the front, her wild hair around her shoulders. "San? Are you okay?"

Memories of the shirt flash back into her mind. It's _the _shirt. The shirt Brittany walked out in. A pale hand wraps around her wrist, breaking her from her thoughts, and suddenly she's being tugged back inside the bedroom, the door shutting with a click behind her as she twirls around to face Brittany once more.

"Where'd you go?" Brittany continues, taking a step forward.

Santana instinctively moves away, and nearly knocks over the TV on the dresser behind her, hitting her sensitive ribs on the way. That's going to get annoying. "Thirsty."

"Thirsty?" Brittany repeats with disbelief, eyeing up Santana's empty hands. "You never wake up because you're thirsty."

It's true. Come hell or high water couldn't wake Santana up when she's asleep. But it's not like she wants to admit that being with Brittany like that, in her arms, was too good not to stay half-awake for. So she settles for a lie and slides along the dresser to stand in front of the un-curtained window.

"Like I said," she intones. "I was thirsty."

The taller girl moves forward, and widens her eyes. "San," she breathes, her hand reaching for Santana's face.

Santana knocks it away before she can respond and brushes passed the blonde. "I was thirsty. I went to get a drink."

Brittany tries to reach for her again and clenches her jaw. "I'm not talking about that."

"What?"

The blonde has worry etching across her facial features and drops her hands in defeat. "Your face."

The statement catches Santana off-guard and she darts her eyes from side to side quickly, finding meaning in Brittany's words. Then the previous night comes back to her. Shit. For two years she hadn't had to worry about explaining injuries to her friends or peers, but now Brittany's here, staring at her expectantly.

"It's bleeding."

Santana ducks her head as Brittany reaches out again and slides under the blonde's arm. "It doesn't matter."

"It does," Brittany states firmly, grasping Santana's wrist and halting her involuntarily.

It ticks and ticks, and then implodes inside Santana's chest. It's too much and it's just been building up. "Fuck, Brittany! Stop!"

"Let me clean your face."

"Fucking stop, Brittany!" Santana blurts out, raising her hands high in the air and dropping them aggressively. "Stop acting like everything's all-fucking-right, because it's not. I'm your damn bodyguard. Nothing more."

She can see the surprise sketch itself across Brittany's face at her outburst, and the words have left her lips before she can prevent the hurt expression that joins the surprise. It doesn't work like that. _Why the hell is Brittany hurt?_

Brittany leaves through a side door, and returns with a damp towel and an unimpressed face. She knows she's going to pay for that in some way or another.

And then there's the hiss that escapes her mouth as the damp fabric presses on the cut above her eyebrow and wipes across her skin. She can only assume the dried blood is still there and despite her mind screaming at her to get up and walk out dramatically, her body gives into the feeling of Brittany's fingertips grazing over her temple with every other wipe.

"I would've been fine," Brittany whispers, as if it's a secret. "They wouldn't have done anything to me."

Right, the show.

"He had his arm around you, tugging you into the crowd," Santana replies as Brittany stops her actions and leads Santana towards the bed, pushing her shoulder down until she's perched on the side. Then Brittany resumes the wiping. "And I'm your bodyguard. I'm here to protect you whenever I see fit."

Brittany tilts Santana's chin up with her forefinger, examining the wound with a slightly angered tinge of blue to her eyes. "Who did this?"

"Some asshole from the crowd, he lunged on me as I resc-" she swallows the rest of the word. "Got you from the stage."

The blonde grabs the towel, reddened with dried blood, and slips out through the door she came from. It's probably the bathroom, like an en suite. Hell, it _is_ a mansion after all. En suites are like standard or something. She returns seconds later with a small green box the size of a hot pocket and kneels down in front of Santana, her head level with the other girls and settles the box down on the comforter beside her.

"I shouldn't say thank you," Brittany whispers, clicking the box open and grabbing something from inside. "But I'm going to anyway." Her breath is blanketing Santana's face heavily, and her head swims at the feeling.

Silky soft fingertips graze against Santana's brow once more. They're like a cold fire burning her skin as something sticky is applied to her forehead: butterfly stitches. Brittany's face is slightly scrunched in concentration, her tongue darting out and Santana can't stop herself from flickering from blue eyes to perfect, soft lips.

"You're an ass," Brittany murmurs as her thumb pad runs along the thin strip and follows the curve down Santana's temple. "Putting yourself in danger to rescue me."

Her mouth drops open to respond _'it's my job'_, but then their eyes meet. Suddenly, it hits them how close they are, how their breaths are mingling together between them and how Brittany's cool hands are scorching hot against her face. She clenches her jaw. She can't do this. It's a stupid idea and it'll only hurt more in the long run. But she can't move. She's staring deeply into sapphire orbs and can't look away. It punches her in the stomach, half-winding her and if her lips meet Brittany's, she knows she'll stop breathing altogether.

It's _way_ more than Santana can handle. Brittany will _literally_ be the death of her, whether it's because of a heart failure or lack of oxygen, it's inevitable. It's like she's hanging over a black pit, not knowing where it's going but knowing it's going to be bad. But there's that inkling inside of her that _needs_ to know where it leads. That _needs_ to know what it feels like.

Brittany gently lowers Santana's chin with the hand she's still got on her face and leans forward slightly. As soon as her nose brushes against Brittany's, everything crumbles. The strength in her body disappears and she falls head first into the never-ending pit, not knowing what the fuck is coming and not really caring because the free-fall is feeling pretty damn good.

"Can I…" Brittany breathes against plump lips, and Santana almost faints at the light taste that lingers on the tip of her tongue.

Santana's rejection is on the brink of her lips, but her body's having different ideas and her eyes flutter shut subconsciously. It's been too long. Too long without kissing, too long without the one thing she needed more than air. And now it's right in front of her. Literally.

And it's happening before she can respond. The lightest, most gentle pressure is upon her lips and the taste spikes through her veins, acting like heroine as it sinks into her. Brittany's mouth brushes against Santana's almost like they don't touch at all, and it's too much. Brittany's hands are resting on top of her thighs gently, and Santana's bending down to meet the blonde halfway. So when Brittany pulls back the smallest bit, she's hyper-aware of what's actually happening.

But it's not the reaction she was thinking. Almost immediately she knows that she needs more, she _wants_ more. And without a second thought, she follows Brittany's movement, pressing their mouths together again. Her lips part just the slightest bit in hope of receiving extra, and she does. The heavenly sweetness glides across her tongue as Brittany sighs into the kiss and her hot breath blankets Santana. A smile graces her lips, but it soon disappears as Brittany kisses her bottom lip, dragging it between her own and sucking lightly.

The mere sensation would cause Santana's legs to buckle if she wasn't sitting down, and suddenly she's grateful for that bulky bastard cracking her in the face earlier. Because it would mean that _this _wouldn't have happened. But she's not sure if she wants it to continue. Fuck, it's so complicated. All parts of her being are telling her different things. Her mind screams at her, her heart pleads with her, and her body begs with her. It's too much. _Way_ too fucking much.

And then she pulls away again, her mind switching to the throbbing ache in her stomach that's growing with the kisses and settling on the begging. She needs it. She needs Brittany. And she needs her now. Santana's head switches sides and their lips part momentarily before returning in a deeper kiss, Brittany's nose nudging against Santana's cheek.

Her hand slides from the side of the bed and up Brittany's arm, curving up the dancers toned shoulders and collarbone, where she lingers a little longer than necessary, and finally ends up cupping the blonde's cheeks as their lips melt against one another. It's so damn good. So damn addictive. And all the worry about psychos, letters, and frantic shows ending up with a split eyebrow and bruised rib, all disappear somewhere in the back of her mind.

Brittany's tongue flicks cautiously against her lip, asking for silent permission and she doesn't even bother trying to fight it as her lips part and her tongue delves into Brittany's mouth, tracing the contours of her mouth. All of a sudden Santana's gripping the blonde's waist, tugging upwards, their lips still molding against each other as Brittany rises and pushes Santana back. She needs control. Brittany can't have it, she _won't _have it, not while Santana still has a say.

Her hands find the back of Brittany's bent legs and slide up to the thighs where she pulls roughly, and the blonde takes this as a sign, as they've done it so many times before, to straddle her. Strong knees press into the bed beside Santana's hips and Santana runs her hands up powerful thighs and curves around the nicest ass she's ever known. She grips tightly, her fingers digging into Brittany's ass as she grinds their hips together.

This isn't about love. This isn't about Santana and Brittany re-uniting romantically. This is nothing but lust, anger, hurt, rejection, and heartbreak. It's sexual tension that's built up over weeks of Santana being here, over years of them being apart, not touching, not kissing. Santana and Brittany never went a week without sex. Hell, they never went a _day_ without sex. And two years of being apart, two excruciatingly long years of nothing, has led to this massive aching in the pit of Santana' stomach, and a huge throbbing in between her legs.

It seems Brittany senses this because their kisses are no longer slow and languid; they're fast, sloppy, messy. Tongues crash together, fighting in a sensual oral battle for dominance that neither will give in. Teeth graze against lips, tugging and biting roughly. Hands roam their bodies and grip tightly at clothes. Wait, why are they still clothed?

"Off," Santana demands in between kisses, her fingers pulling at the hem of Brittany's top.

Brittany arches backwards, and Santana takes this as an acceptance and breaks their lips momentarily before whipping off the shirt and throwing it into the darkness of the room. Cool fingers slide along the slither of skin showing between her tank top and pants and grip the bottom, tugging until it's bunched underneath her shoulders. It sends shivers down her spine. Every touch, every graze of Brittany's nails against her skin feels like fire. But it's good. It's a strange sort of comfort. Painful, yes, but still, comfort nonetheless.

She palms Brittany's ass tighter, her hips rocking upwards to meet the ache and receiving the smallest of pleasures. But it's not enough. She pulls their bodies tighter together and stands, wrapping one arm underneath Brittany's legs and the other around her waist. With a quick turn, she's back on the bed, one knee pressed firmly into the comforter. She breaks the kiss and Brittany shuffles backwards, blonde hair meeting the pillow and blue eyes half-hooded and aroused.

Santana squeezes her eyes shut and allows her body to take over her mind. She needs it. Her mind's been running on full throttle for years, and she needs a release. Brittany is her release. Brittany was always her release. She slides one hand up Brittany's side and palms her bare breast, feeling the nipple harden under her touch. God, this is more than she can handle, but she needs it. She wants it. Fuck. Their lips meet again, hard, and bruises already feel like they're forming.

All the fights, all the arguments that slowly chipped away at the foundation of their relationship come swarming back to her. It's like they say, when there's a break up, you start looking back at the time together and see the cracks forming.

* * *

><p><em>Santana approached Brittany's dorm and rapped on the door. Fuck, she better be inside.<em>

_The door swung open and Brittany was there, hands on her hips and jaw clenched. She was pissed off to say the least. "What?"_

"_I'm sorry."_

_Blue eyes stayed angered. "Sorry for what?"_

_Santana knew she shouldn't have gone out last night with Quinn. She knew she'd wake up with a major hangover, and turn up to the lunch with Brittany's parents still half-drunk and pretty damn tired. But Quinn came into town. What was she supposed to do? Ditch her best friend?_

"_For missing the lunch with your parents," Santana responded, trying to put as much sincerity in her voice as possible. "I shouldn't have gone out last night."_

_Brittany drummed the fingers of the hand leaning on the door, and pursed her lips. Santana said she was sorry, damn. Couldn't she just forgive her?_

"_No, you shouldn't have."_

_And the door slammed shut._

* * *

><p>Brittany's tugging on her shirt again and taking it off before she can argue. The loss of contact between their lips tingle on Santana's and she gulps, feeling Brittany's taste. Her sweet, addictive fucking taste slides down the back of her throat, itching at her for more. She twists her body, and lays flush against Brittany's body, wigging her hips down and pushing hard against the ache between her legs. Strong thighs part and she drops between them, one hand sliding down the dancers toned stomach, running over firm muscles and almost groaning at the sorely missed feeling under her palm.<p>

She moves her lips, quickly glancing at Brittany's swollen ones before she turns her attention to the long slope of Brittany's neck, kissing, licking, and sucking hard. Pale fingers tangle into her hair, scratching her scalp and tugging hard, demanding more and she can't help but give in. Tears well up behind her eyes. All of this is too painful. It hurts so god damn much that she wants to curl into the corner and sob herself into oblivion.

But she won't. She _can't._ Her teeth scrape on the underside of Brittany's jaw and she feels the other girls fists clench hard. The loosely stitched scar on her heart breaks open once more, revealing herself, becoming vulnerable and not wanting it to end. Santana feels fingers toy with the button on her pants. A pop tells her they're open and she feels Brittany's hands pushing them down past her thighs, where she wriggles the rest off.

* * *

><p><em>Brittany walked in, throwing her coat over the back of the chair and headed towards the desk, cocking her hip against the side and crossing her arms. Santana looked up, glasses perched on the end of her nose and back of her eyes aching from hours of reading the same damn revision textbooks.<em>

"_What?"_

_Fair eyebrows rose. "Where the hell were you?"_

_Santana raised her lip at the side, confused by Brittany's words. "Here," she said, gesturing to the scattered papers in front of her._

_Brittany shook her head and let out a heavy sigh of breath. "Clearly."_

"_I have to study, Britt."_

_She didn't know what was going on. Why was Brittany being like this? It's not like she had any… Oh shit._

"_Fuck!" Santana half-yelled. "Your dance performance!"_

_She walked up behind the blonde, snaking her hands around her waist and pulling their bodies together. "I'm sorry baby, I forgot."_

_Brittany turned abruptly in her arms and pushed her away roughly. "You always forget."_

_That did it. "Oh, I apologize if I want to get a damn degree," Santana hissed. "I can't just flounder all over the place and hope for a damn badge or whatever the fuck you get for prancing around."_

_Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. Brittany's mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. Yep, definitely too harsh._

_Santana stepped forward and raised her hands, realizing her mistake. "Baby..."_

"_Don't," Brittany snapped through a clenched jaw._

_And then she walked out._

* * *

><p>Brittany's hands reach around Santana's body, unsnapping her bra clasp and sliding it down her arms, throwing it to join the various discarded clothing somewhere in the darkness. For a second, Santana is nervous. She's nervous about her body. Sure, Brittany's seen it before, but that was before the Army. Before the random pieces of shrapnel snipped at her hipbone and gashed a wound below her right breast. Before a bullet lodged between her ribs, missing the bones and major blood vessels. Before the unethical surgery that included a switchblade and a hell of a lot of vodka to get the bullet out.<p>

But it doesn't matter. Brittany's flipped them, now straddling Santana, apparently bottomless as she drops the sweat pants over the side of the bed and leans down once more. It's so surreal, so damn unbelievable that blonde hair is curtaining them in their own bubble, and soft lips that she'd never thought would meet her own again brush against her neck once more. It's everything she's missed. Everything she's wanted. Everything she's dreamed about in the past two years. But now it's happening, and she can't believe it.

The sound of heavy breathing invades her eardrums and the way Brittany's hand is slowly sliding down her abs is piercing her heart. Lips follow the movement, and she feels Brittany's disproval as her face scrunches over her ribs, kisses being pressed lightly to the skin discoloration formed on her bruised ribs. A flick of the wrist and she feels moisture on the back of her hand as she wipes it shakily across her cheek. Damn, she's crying. She hasn't cried in what, like two years? Ever since Brittany left.

Brittany left. Brittany fucking left. And now she's kissing her neck and flicking at the waistband on her underwear. How is this okay? How is this fair?

* * *

><p>"<em>Christ, we can't even go one conversation without biting each other's heads off!"<em>

_Brittany jerked backwards, fisting the comforter tighter in her hand as she crossed her legs. "Maybe because you're so damn aggressive all the damn time."_

_Santana spun around and slammed her fist on the counter. "Maybe I'm so damn aggressive because sometimes you're so fucking…" she stopped herself. She couldn't._

"_Fucking what, San?" Brittany leaped off the bed and took a daunting step forward. "Go on, say it."_

_She was sick and tired of arguing. And the anger didn't help it as the word escaped her lips._

"_Stupid."_

* * *

><p>It takes a few seconds before she can finally get a grip on reality and her damn conflicting emotions and flips them again, regaining the dominance she needs. Her hand skates up the sides of Brittany's ribs, lightly grazing with her nails. The blonde groans and a shot of arousal spirals through Santana's body as she breaks the kiss and travels down the long pale slope of Brittany's neck. Her tongue licks and mouth sucks at the sensitive spot, and her body moves with the arching of the dancer's. It feels so damn good and bad at the same time. Santana just doesn't know what to do to.<p>

But her body knows. And her hand stops at Brittany's waistband, toying with the string bow, waiting for the strength to summon the courage to take it off. Then the blonde whimpers and wraps one leg around Santana's, forcing her hips down to meet Brittany's, and she takes that as a silent pleading. So she bites down hard on the crook of Brittany's neck and starts placing rough kisses down the other girl's body, worshipping every inch of skin with her lips. She creates an imaginary circle around the dancer's navel with her tongue and trails down until she hits the waistband, pausing momentarily to hook her thumbs into the fabric and tugs it off with one quick moment. And then her breath hitches in her throat.

It's so much for Santana to take. It's so damn much and her head is swimming, crowding with thoughts and painful memories. She read in a book once that confliction of love was the worst thing to become of two people. It created barriers and pain and scars that won't ever fade with time. She never really got it, but now, looking down at Brittany with an agonizing expression and an adoring heart, she gets it. It's hard. Being so in love with someone, it's really fucking hard.

Santana stares at Brittany, and kisses her way back up her body until their faces are hovering inches away from each other. The blonde stares at her adoringly, her eyes filled with sadness, regret, and love. But Santana doesn't want to see it. She's pissed. She _needs _to get this out of her system. But she wants to say something, anything, because the feeling in her chest aches every time she looks at Brittany, and sometimes it's good. And it can't be like that. It _shouldn't_ be like that.

Her fingers slide down the smooth plane of Brittany's stomach, and feel the muscles contract and twitch under her touch. Something flows through her body, down her legs and up her arms, and it feels natural, it feels familiar, and it feels good. And she doesn't want it. Her lips press down on Brittany's hard; her teeth bite at the blonde's bottom lip because she's still angry, she's still bitter, and she's still hurt that Brittany had left her. Nothing's changed.

Everything's the same between them and no amount of pained expressions, longing looks, or addictive kisses is going to change that.

* * *

><p>"<em>Britt, come on," Santana murmured, knocking on the bathroom door. "Baby, please."<em>

_Brittany threw the door open and leaned back against the counter with a pout. Santana felt the butterflies flutter inside her stomach, as well as the alcohol that mixed with them, slur around. She'd been drinking out with one of her classmates, Tina, and returned back to her dorm with an angry blonde inside._

"_Are you pissed at me for going out for drinks?"_

_The blonde pretended not to hear, and twisted her head defiantly. "Nope."_

_Santana took a step closer. "Then why are you pissed? Are you jealous?"_

"_No," Brittany answered, quicker than necessary._

_Tanned hands slid around pale arms and pulled them free. "Baby, look at me."_

_Brittany didn't respond and continued to look away._

"_Baby," Santana leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Brittany's neck. "Please, just look at me."_

_Ocean blue met coffee brown. "What?"_

"_I love you. And only you." She picked up the blondes hand and brought it between them. "Doesn't this prove it? Isn't it enough for us?"_

_Brittany stayed silent for a few long moments, her eyes switching between angered and adoring as they stayed trained on the promise ring on her finger. Tina didn't mean anything to Santana. Hell, no one meant anything to Santana but Brittany. And the fact she had to try and convince the blonde of that kind of pissed her off._

_But she thought Brittany knew she loved her. Damn, she'd proved it enough over their one year and four months of being together. But she hadn't thought about the answer. She couldn't have _ever _thought of or expected the answer she was about to hear._

"_I don't know anymore."_

* * *

><p>Santana breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against Brittany's as her hand meets hot flesh. A flush scorches through her skin and she feels herself sweat with anticipation as the reality of what they're doing crashes down on her. Every part of her is responding to Brittany in a way that makes her want to collapse because that's just the effect the blonde has on it. She's holding back tears, but knowing she's struggling to do so.<p>

Their breathing is rapid and harsh between them and she's rocking violently into the blonde. Brown eyes follow her sliding hand, and she can hear the heavy breathing in her ear as Brittany does the same, watching her create circular motions and cause muscles to twitch. The blonde's hips arch upwards, wanting more from Santana's hands and she can't help but oblige to the requests as she enters Brittany fast, feeling the walls clench around her wandering fingers.

She finds a rhythm, her hips moving in time with her hand, pushing them deeper and causing more pleasure as Brittany's breathing becomes heavier, grip becomes harder, and mouth drops wider. It's been so long since she's been able to see Brittany like this, eyes hooded and glistening in the moonlight, her body twitching and matching the rhythm of her hips. But she's angry. She's really fucking angry and she wants to show Brittany this. She _needs_ the blonde to know how much she's hurting.

But it's a thing of beauty, watching the one you love in such awe because of something you can do. And it's painful if the one you love broke your heart, and Santana knows this. She ducks her head, sucking hard on Brittany's neck as her fingers dip, slide, and twist until she feels the blonde's body shuddering around her touch.

* * *

><p>"<em>Britt, I'm back," Santana said cheerily as she unlocked the door and stepped in.<em>

_Everything was amazing in her life. She'd recently become a freakin' millionaire, she had the most beautiful girlfriend in the entire world who she was madly in love with and who, by some unbelievable luck in the world, loved her back and she was six months away from getting honors in her chosen degree. And today was her year and a half anniversary with that gorgeous girlfriend of hers._

"_Baby?" She shuffled the champagne into her other arm as she walked in and was met an intense blue glare. "Wait, what's going on?"_

_Brittany was perched on the edge of the bed, hands clamped between shut knees and biting her lip nervously. Santana took a quick once over of the room and saw a bag by the bottom of the blonde's feet. Panic immediately shot through her and she dropped the bouquet, the champagne hanging loosely in her hand as she struggled to hold it._

"_Britt?" she called, her face falling from its cheery expression it held a minute ago. Her breathing became shallow and fast. The look on Brittany's face was pained, but somehow blank and emotionless. It clawed down the back of Santana's throat as she heard the words she knew were coming, but wished weren't true._

"_I'm leaving."_

_Everything blurred and Santana dropped the bottle. It landed with a thud instead of a shattering crash and she moved forward, her knees hitting the floor as she knelt in front of Brittany._

"_Why?" she breathed, her heart quickening its pace._

_Brittany ripped her hands from Santana's and stood. "My parents got me a job in LA as a back-up dancer."_

_Thousands of possible replies burned through her, brimming on her tongue and bubbling in her mouth. She stared at the back of the blonde head of hair, unshed tears forming behind her eyes as she felt everything inside of her drain away. How could she persuade Brittany to stay? How could Brittany do this to her? What did she do wrong?_

_A glass shard splintered into millions of pieces into her soul as she said the only words she knew to be true. "I love you."_

_But Brittany didn't turn. And Santana's heart broke even further. A solitary tear ran down the length of her cheek and her muscles twitched as she collapsed onto the floor, feeling everything being swept from beneath her feet. It couldn't be happening. She didn't want to believe it was happening because she didn't think it was possible. But it was._

"_Isn't that enough to make you stay?" Santana continued breathlessly, her voice deep and empty._

_And then Brittany twisted around slowly and stared at Santana with dark, empty, cold blue eyes. "No."_

_Her world was crashing around her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Was this really happening? How could it be? Brittany was everything to her. They were happy. They were in love. Or was she imagining it? Was everything a horrible lie? Fuck. Why was this happening?_

_She lurched forward, her body moving before her brain could catch up and she grasped Brittany's hand tight in between her own, silently pleading her to stay. "Please… You don't have to do this. You don't have to go."_

* * *

><p>"San," Brittany breathes out, her body beginning to contract.<p>

Fuck. That's probably the best sound Santana's heard in the past two years. Sure, it's one syllable and three letters long, but hearing her name slide between those perfect lips, breathlessly, damn, nothing could beat that. The muscles clamp tighter and tighter with every curl, and as soon as Brittany's back arches up, Santana pulls back and feels as Brittany's hips buck up with every thrust as her usually clear blue eyes haze over.

"S'ntana," she hears again." Oh my, can I…"

The words trail off, but Santana nods anyway. She takes a deep breath and lifts her hip, allowing a cool hand to snake between their heated bodies. Within seconds, her hand loses momentum as Brittany slides inside of her, matching the rhythm she's creating and their lips collide together roughly. Santana knows how to play dirty, hell, she invented playing dirty, but Brittany's spent enough time with Santana to learn the art, and she knows the blonde's fighting back.

So she bites into the kiss again, tugging Brittany's lip between her own and clamping down hard. A whimper vibrates against her teeth and a wave of satisfaction crawls over Santana, because she's getting revenge, even if it's not in the most conventional of ways. But as she releases it, she feels teeth graze over her own bottom lip and a sharp pain seers through her face. And this time she doesn't fight it. Her heart's aching, there's a build-up in the pit of her stomach and she knows soon her release is going to come.

"Oh shit- Oh S'ntan-," Brittany moans loudly as Santana's fingers curl once more, and feel the walls tightening against them as her thumb presses down on the hardened nub.

She pulls back and watches as pale eyelids flutter several times and then roll back into her head as Brittany's body starts shuddering violently underneath her. A pale hand clenches into Santana's hair tighter and tighter, and she almost winces at the feeling of the tightness. But the feeling of Brittany shaking, and sending it through her body to her fingers pushes Santana over the edge.

She rocks her hips against Brittany's hand, their lips returning and moving around each other messily and roughly, until a gasp escapes her lips and the simmering heart explodes inside of her, causing her body to tense and turn rigid. It feels as if every nerve ending in her body is vibrating and singeing as her body pushes itself into Brittany's and her forehead meets a pale shoulder, eyes closing, waiting out the euphoria washing over her as her body shakes violently.

With a loud exhale, she falls, and crashes onto Brittany with dead weight. Her pants are slowing down and she brings a hand up lazily to wipe the sheen layer of sweat off of her brow as she rolls off of the blonde and onto her back. It's only then that she realizes she's been crying the entire time and covers her eyes with both hands, dreading the conversation that she knows is going to come. It's inevitable and it's going to be fucking painful. But not if she runs. Not if she gets out of there. Now. She tries. But she can't. She's rooted to her spot. Fuck.

It takes a few minutes before her breathing's returned to normal, and Brittany's closed eyes tell her she's asleep due to exhaustion. Her eyes roam over the dancer's perfect body, and her mind tries to make sense of what the hell just happened. A pale hand is resting palm down on her stomach, and she watches as it moves with every breath she takes. The mere feel of Brittany's skin against her is like a scorching heat, but she does nothing but watch it, remembering everything between them and letting her body settle into the ache she hasn't felt in years.

Her fingers immediately glide over to Brittany's face, stroking lightly at her perfect skin and brushing back a single lock of hair. Her heart stammers and she doesn't bother trying to fight the smile that graces her face as she stretches her arms and feels the muscles reject the movement. She's sore. Because of Brittany. Fuck. The girl that left her two and a half years ago, broken hearted and alone. The girl that she's been trying to hate for the past few years. The girl who's currently lying next to her and looking painfully beautiful in her post-coital position.

Fuck.

She throws her legs over the side of the bed, pushing her hands into her forehead and wincing as the cut screams at the pressure. But she doesn't care. She slept with Brittany. She fucking slept with Brittany. Fuck. What was she thinking?

It hits her like a train on a track and she pushes off the bed, searching the darkened floor for her clothing and slips them back on, her tank top first, then her underwear and pants. Brittany had always been a deep sleeper, so she doesn't bother to creep as she heads towards the door, grabbing her shirt from the back of the armchair and shrugging it on.

However as Santana steps over the threshold, she takes a sparing glance at the blonde, rolling over the bed and face scrunching as her arm meets the cooling sheets on the opposite side. Santana bites down the urge to slip back into bed and wipe the unhappy expression off her face by sliding her arms around Brittany's waist, feeling the blonde curl into her side.

That's how the fairy tale would go. That's how it would end up. No discussions, no hurt, no crying. Just two people in love, rekindling in a night of passion and not bothering to talk it out after. Instead she'd lie there, snuggled up with Brittany, limbs entangled and sweet, soft kisses being exchanged throughout the night. But she can't. She won't. She needs to get out of here, before the urge takes over her body.

Nothing's changed. Sleeping with Brittany hasn't done anything to minimize the pain. Santana's still hurting, she's still broken, and everything's still the same as it was two years ago – except more fucked up. So with a heavy, conflicted heart, she quietly shuts the door and heads back to the pool house. Santana barely closes the pool house door before she crumbles to the floor in a sobbing mess, knowing fairy tales aren't real. And her life will never be one.


	10. chapter nine

**Can I just say holy mother fucking God for the reviews on the last chapter! I'm so glad all you guys liked it! Seriously, the reviews astounded me and have given me more inspiration to write!**

**You guys are the reason I continue to write, you truly are amazing readers! I love every single one of you!**

**Anyway, this chapter, I have to admit isn't great. Since the last update and it's reviews, I now feel like whatever I write is shitty – so please excuse me if it doesn't meet the standards of the previous chapter, and sorry as it's kind of a filler!**

**Enjoy anyway!**

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong> After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>Unfortunately, I don't own anything to do with Glee. Sucks to be me.

* * *

><p><strong>The Bodyguard:<br>Chapter Nine**

Santana wakes the next morning, stretching her arms way above her head and feels her arm and thigh muscles ache, rejecting the movement. For a second, she deliberates where this is coming from, but then the previous night comes crashing down on her and she groans, throws her head back and wishes she could curl up into a ball and die. Last night, without a doubt, had topped her list of the stupidest things she's ever done, and fuck, she's done a lot of stupid things. The memories of her and Brittany's arguments are living evidence of that.

A distant crack of thunder breaks her from her thoughts and she jolts from the bed, landing in a crouch on the ground with her gun grasped in her left hand. It's an automatic reaction, and for some reason she's still pretty damn jumpy. It takes a few seconds to lower her heart rate and stand from her position; throwing the gun on top of the bed and rubbing at her eyes, trying to make the ache lurking behind them disappear. She quickly checks her alarm clock by her bed, it's 6am and she should probably start getting dressed. But there's no one inch of will inside of her pushing her to do so.

The talk, it's going to come. The awkward, fiddling-with-hair and looking-at-everything-around-the-room kind of talk that will undoubtedly break her heart further, is inevitable. But it doesn't stop her from _not_ wanting to have it. She throws herself back onto the bed, clad in the clothes she left Brittany's room last night in. Her forearm rests against her forehead as she closes her eyes, and is greeted by flashbacks of her and Brittany rolling around in the bed, limbs entangled and hands wander- Fuck. No.

She can't do that. It was a mistake. A stupid mistake. Meaningless hook-ups happen all the time, and this just happened to be one. Plus it's going to lead to thoughts of the stupid talk, and she _still_ doesn't want it, hell, maybe she can avoid it - completely disregard any responsibility for her actions and blame it on some irrational excuse like she's in a strange place or drunk. Despite not drinking. Fuck. It doesn't matter how much she tries to reason with herself, she knows it's her fault, she knows she has no-one but herself to blame for why she's feeling so damn upset, confused and generally shitty. She wouldn't have to have it if she'd just kept her damn legs closed. Fuck.

"Lopez!" There's several knocks at the door and Santana debates whether or not to answer it, "I know you're in there. Get your lazy ass up!"

She groans, knowing Puck won't leave her alone until she answers the damn door and slips into some sweat pants and hoodie, before padding down the hallway towards the glass paned doors. The outline of Puck is clear and she rolls her eyes, affirming the fact she doesn't want to see him, Quinn or anyone else for that matter.

But she throws the door open anyway, "What do you want Puckerman?"

He steps back defensively and does a once over, noticing her no-make up and unbrushed hair, which shit, is probably still ruffled from the se-

"You look like shit."

Santana cocks her head to the side and leans it against the door, blocking his entrance, "And you wanted what? To abuse me and make me feel worse? Or did you actually have something to say?"

Puck shrugs, "Actually I came to get the cologne I gave to you yesterday, saw Sam a minute ago and he said you hadn't given it to him."

"Oh, yeah, shit sorry. Was a bit pre-occupied with a little thing called my job, maybe you should've been too."

She slips off the door and leaves it open for Puck to walk in. She heads back towards the bedroom where she knows her blazer is, and hopes to God that the cologne's still in there. If not, she might as well bring out a silver platter for her head to be served on. Since he "_loves that damn stuff"_. Oh fuck, that reminds her. That's _the_ smell. The one she walked in on. She still has to talk to Trouty Mouth about that.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Puck calls from the living room.

Santana picks up her blazer, shuffles through it until she finds the glass bottle and heads back down the hallway towards Puck. He smiles and props his feet up on the coffee table as he sits on the sofa.

"It means," She throws him the bottle and it hits him in the chest, "You were standing by the damn side of the stage when I was protecting Britt."

For a second she swears she sees panic flash across Puck's face as she steps into the kitchen, "Sorry, was talking to a chick."

"A chick?" Santana repeats as she heads towards the kettle and flicks it on, "Oh, was it the same one then?"

"Same one as what?"

She opens the cabinet and takes out a plain white mug, and replies slowly, "The one from earlier, when I was standing outside."

Puck pushes off the couch and walks to the kitchen island opposite Santana. He leans his forearms on the marble countertop and furrows his brows in confusion.

"You came out, fixing your belt and stuff…" She presses on, filling her cup with hot water and plopping in a tea bag. Damn, it's like she's talking to a pre-schooler, actually no, that's mean to the pre-schooler. Puck's currently resembling something from the ice age. A Neanderthal perhaps.

"Umm," Puck says, looking like he's scanning his brain for any memory.

What the hell? Santana's confused. Puck always remembers all his hook-ups. Hell, she knows this better than anyone, mostly because he tells her every minute spent with whichever unlucky idiot decided to spread her legs for him, with every single tiny and incredibly dirty detail. It's pretty gross.

"Uh…" He picks up an apple out the fruit bowl and takes a large bite out of it, "You sure that was me?"

Santana turns, and spoons out the teabag as she turns to Puck. "Yeah. You accused me of being jealous."

"Oh yeah," Puck exclaims, widening his eyes in a forced manner, "_That_ chick."

She rolls her eyes and takes a tentative sip from her un-milked tea. Hey, don't judge, it doesn't taste that bad. Puck stays silent for a few moments, spinning the apple in his palm as his eyes glaze over, like he's day dreaming or thinking pretty damn hard. Puck never thinks hard. No, scratch that, Puck never _thinks. _What the fuck?

"Yeah, so, was it that one?" Santana pushes on, placing her mug down gently on the counter and hoisting herself up onto the counter and watches Puck look at her like she's talking Chinese. "That you were talking to at the side of the stage, blah, blah, blah?"

He stands, letting the half-eaten apple drop into the bin beside him and he heads towards the fridge, "Yeah. We were talking and stuff."

"And stuff?"

Puck nods, "Yeah. Stuff."

She lets her eyes scan over him for a second. It's only then she notices the five o'clock shadow on his face, the way his eyes look darker and how the bags underneath them make him look like he needs a cup of soup and about thirty hours sleep. There's something seriously weird about this. Puck was always about appearances, and the few months she'd been here, that never seemed to have changed. Until now.

"You alright Puckerman?" She asks gingerly, picking up her tea and blowing the steam off the top, "You look a little tired."

Puck nods and shuts the fridge after grabbing a bottle of water. He twists the cap off and throws it onto the countertop before heading towards Santana and leaning against the counter opposite, "Yeah, that's it, I'm just tired."

She kind of wants to hug him. He looks like along with the soup and sleep, a great big cuddle would perk him up. But that's not how they work, they have a _lesbro_ relationship. One with little jabs and teases, jokes about sexuality and talks about gruesome details of Puck's most recent sexcapade. So she bites it down and watches as his eyes glaze over, again. He's seriously thinking about something hard. And she wants to know.

"What are you thinking about?"

Santana's hand lowers, and she aims to put the mug down on the countertop but misses. Her arm does a little spasm and she jolts off the counter, in any attempt to catch the mug that's currently falling through the air. But as she reaches for it, another tanned hand beats her too it and her head snaps up to look into dark, hazel eyes.

"Whoah," She says, eyeing up his hand grasping the mug tightly, "And you said _I_ had reactions like a cat." She jokes, straightening up and shuffling back onto the counter.

Panic flashes across his face, and Santana raises an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. But within a second she shakes it off, like it matters? So what if Puck has ridiculously good reactions? Join the freakin' club.

"Uh," He stutters, shoving the mug onto the counter next to him, "Yeah, I gotta go."

And within a second, the door shuts and Santana's left alone, wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

><p>It's 7.30am when she finally makes it out the pool house in respectable clothing, being a white v neck t-shirt and skinny jeans, and of course her shoulder holster. Puck's always pretty cavalier about his clothing, and she really can't be bothered to get into anything smart so she heads out, sliding her ponytail through the hole on her baseball cap. It's a pretty sunny day for November, but there's still a chill to the wind, so she grabs her leather jacket and shrugs it on.<p>

She hates this time of the year, coming up to Christmas and the weather can't decide whether it wants to be sunny or cold, instead it has to mix and leave Santana with a cold sweat. I mean, what the fuck is that about? Stupid body glands. She shoves her hands inside her pockets and stalks out through the little pathway, checking to make sure no foliage has grown over the CCTV cameras, because gardening isn't one of her skills.

There's several dancers sitting on the rim of the dolphin fountain when she gets there, and they all look at her with a disgusted sneer, immediately disregarding her and continuing to have their nicotine lunch. Quinn had told her they replaced any actual food for damn cigarettes, something to do with weight loss, and she thought it was ridiculous. What was the problem with exercising?

"Santana!"

She turns and see's Sam jogging up to her, and immediately she's suspicious. She still needs to talk to him about the cologne thing, but how the hell is she meant to bring it up without sounding like she's accusing him of something?

"Hey," Santana murmurs as Sam sidles up beside her, they walk towards the staircase, "You good?"

Sam nods, "Yeah, I'm good and you?"

"Yeah, fine thanks."

"Good."

Did he actually just come here to make chit chat? What the-

"Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you." Sam says, stroking one hand through his dirty blonde locks.

There we go.

"Right," She says warily, not entirely sure where this is going, "What's up?"

He slows his walking, and Santana matches the pace as they approach the mansions' front door. Once they get there, he stops fully and suddenly she starts to worry. What could he want? It's not like they didn't talk, but the way he's speaking, all serious and shit, they just don't talk like that. They never have, not even when she lost her virginity to him. It'd been all actions and no words. It was like her old motto. She preferred not to talk _during_, well, actually, preferred not to talk at all.

"Look," Sam scuffs his loafer along the pavestone beneath his foot and looks down, "I know I've been a bit off recently."

Santana blinks, "Yeah…"

"And I just wanted to apologise."

Well that's unexpected.

"For what?" She asks tentatively as she reaches inside her jacket for the key card. The conversation is kind of uncomfortable, and as much as she'd like to pretend she doesn't care what he's talking about, she does. She's always been nosey like that.

Sam inhales deeply and locks eyes with Santana, "When I found out about you know…"

She shakes her head slowly and her brows furrow. What the hell is he talking about? "No."

"Your um," Sam clears his throat, "Sexuality."

The awkwardness suddenly increases, and she finds herself wanting to run away, in any direction, as long as it's fast and gets her out of this conversation. "Oh, right."

She slips the key card through and the door unlocks. Sam holds it open and she takes it as a sign to step in, trying to decide which room to hide away in. But she doesn't have time as a hand is pressed against her shoulder softly, causing her to turn.

"I just wanted to know, I don't have a problem with it," Sam murmurs lightly, dipping his head again. Thank God, he's just as uncomfortable about this conversation as she is, "You're still Santana to me."

It's like some cheesy film where the ex-boyfriend rejects the new sexuality and struggles, but in the end all ends up well as he finally accepts it and they live their lives happy. But she can't say that. Hell she isn't rude. Okay, she is, well can be, but only when the occasion calls for it.

"Thank you," She bobs her head up and down and feigns a smile, hoping it not _too_ obviously forced, "Means a lot."

It's a lie, but Sam doesn't know that. So when he grins, she knows it's quite scary how well she can lie and walks towards the living room with the blonde man in toe. But then it dawns on her, she still hasn't asked him about that damn cologne.

"Hey Sam?" She calls, "You know that cologne you wear?"

Sam frowns and then nods as it crosses his mind, "Well, actually I don't wear it."

Santana frowns, "What?"

"I don't wear it anymore. I only bought it because it was cheap, and then after a few uses, I decided I didn't like it."

Suspicion burns through her veins. It's not like Sam would lie to her, and if she did, her three week lie-detecting training programme she had back in Afghanistan should let her know. The programme was quick, but efficient. So, she supresses it and smile, "Oh right, okay."

* * *

><p>Thirty seconds later, and they're entering the living room. Rachel bounds up to them, clasping her hands together and smiling widely in that <em>really<em> fucking annoying manner that she'd formed in high school.

"Good morning, I see you two are up bright and early."

Santana rolls her eyes and exhales heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She's been thinking so much it's like an emotional hangover, and Rachel's high-pitched tone really isn't helping.

"And you're way too cheery for the morning Berry. Tone it down a level."

The shorter brunette flips her hand and chuckles, "Always a morning person Santana."

"Like you wouldn't believe."

Sam heads off towards Puck who's standing on the opposite side of the room. Hate fills her as she turns and sees Rachel still standing next to her. Couldn't she just go away? The other six dwarfs are probably waiting around somewhere.

"So, how are you Santana? We haven't had a suitable time to engage in conversation."

"Talk, Berry, we haven't had time to talk." Santana corrects, not wanting to hear the lengthened vocabulary. She's really not in the damn mood, and Berry being here is just the cherry on top of the cake. Well, technically berry on top of the cake. But her mood's _that _bad that even that lame joke isn't entertaining.

"Anyway," Rachel continues, "How are you?"

The shorter brunette's eyes brighten and Santana furrows her brow as she hears mutterings coming from behind her. Warily, she twists her neck and follows Rachel's line of sight where she finds Puck, Sam and Quinn. A smirk graces her face and she raises both eyebrows, turning back to the other girl.

"Screw the small talk, what's the deal with you and Fabray?"

Rachel shakes her head and widens her eyes comically, "What?"

"Cut the shit, you and Q, there's something there."

The smaller brunette bites on her lip and starts to bob her leg up and down nervously. It's pretty amusing, seeing Rachel actually nervous, considering her confident and unbelievably annoying personality that she used to have back in high school, but hey, things change don't they.

"I have no idea what you're…"

She tunes Rachel's voice out as soon as she feels the atmosphere around her spike. Her body stands rigid and she feels her muscles tense, her eyes flutter shut involuntarily as she slowly cranes her neck around to see Brittany gliding into the room. The blonde hair is tied up messily into a loose ponytail, and she's wearing the _Columbia_ top and bunched up sweat pants she was wearing last night. And it only reminds Santana of exactly how long it'd taken to take each one of those off, and what they'd done afterwards. Not good.

"…But I can assure you we're just friends."

Santana turns and raises an eyebrow, "Oops, wasn't listening. Shame." She mutters sarcastically.

The look on Rachel's face is enough to send the wave of satisfaction through her body. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets and dips her head, hoping Brittany won't come and talk to her now because she _really_ can't deal with it. She at least needs a few hours to process what happened, and then maybe a couple of days on top of that to get her shit together.

Rachel continues to talk at Santana about something to do with her life, maybe how Smurfville was invaded by Gargamel again, or how they finally found the _one ring to rule them all _and Gandalf is throwing them a celebratory party. But, in some fucked up way, she's kind of grateful for Berry right now, because she knows Brittany well enough to know the blonde won't want to talk about what happened last night in front of an audience. And hell, Rachel is loud enough to count as an audience all by herself. But fuck, that makes it kind of worse, the thought that Her and Brittany going to talk _alone._ Just them. Together. Alone. That's gonna be tough.

A clap breaks Santana from her thoughts, thank God, and she turns to join everyone as their attention is centred to the small brunette moving towards the middle of the room. Oh wow, that's different. Rachel Berry being the centre of attention. Well at least _some_ things don't change.

"Now, everyone, listen up," She claps her hands again. That's going to get annoying, "Last night was a shining example of why we need to step up our choreography."

Santana narrows her eyes and lets out a sarcastic chuckle. Of course Berry would focus on the dancing, and the damn show – not the fact Brittany was half-pulled off the stage and nearly beaten up.

"Artie's here to give you some advice, as I'm only renowned for my impeccable vocal skills. However my dancing isn't terrible."

"You look like you've been asleep for years Berry," Santana interjects, raising both eyebrows, "Seriously, it's embarrassing to watch."

Rachel flips Santana off and she stares at the smaller brunette intently whilst a few chuckles come from around the room. It's weird and pretty damn aggravating seeing Rachel with balls, metaphorically obviously, but still, the woman's finally strapped on a pair. At least it gives Santana a challenge now. Artie steps into the centre, rubbing his hand up Rachel's arm before giving her a slight shove so she stumbles off into the surrounding crowd.

It shocks Santana to realise that there were now at least 30 or so dancers in here, most of which she'd never seen before. Panic sets in as she scans along the crowd, knowing that the psycho could possibly be here, and she wouldn't know any better. So, with intense concentration, she focuses on Brittany who's perched on the back of the sofa, hands clasped as she balances on the thinness that is the back of the couch.

Blue eyes meet brown and she knows she should look away. But there's something so inviting about Brittany, there's _always_ been something so inviting and addictive and she can't bring herself to look away. Santana can always see whatever emotion Brittany was feeling, and even now, as she watches hurt and pain flash behind cerulean orbs, it does nothing but make her feel bad.

"Robertson, tighten up your chasses – they're sloppy." Artie points towards a short man in the corner, with a buzz haircut. Santana studies him for a moment and decides he's probably as threatening as a ten week old puppy and checks him off her list.

"Goldman, you need to work on your cross-body lead with Jennifer, there were a few crucial steps missed last night and it affects Brittany's performance."

Santana rolls her eyes and leans against the side of the window, eyes trained on the dancers encircling Rachel. She takes note of everyone, their facial features, their hair colour, their figures and body shapes. It's not for any particular reason, it's just in case. Never can be too safe. Hell, maybe she can even re-watch the CCTV and try to match them to that damn psycho. At least it'll give her something to for a while, instead of focusing on that isn't blonde, blue eyed and breath-takingly beautiful.

Artie moves around the room, and stops in front of Brittany, pressing his hand his hip whilst bringing his hand up to the blondes jaw. He does a quick sweep and Santana tunes into what he's saying,

"…And you were perfect as always Britt."

Cerulean eyes shoot towards coffee ones, and Santana feels the piping hot jealous pour through her. She's trying, like _really_ fucking trying to supress the red she's seeing, but the way the anorexic fucking dancer is lingering on Brittany's perfectly chiselled cheek and soft skin is just fuelling it. Her fists clench into the sides of her ribs, as her arms are crossed, and she bites on her bottom lip hard. Somehow, she manages to force her line of sight to the swirling texture on the ceiling and waits it out. She can't react. She has no claim over Brittany. Fuck.

"Santana."

Santana frowns and looks down to Quinn who's standing next to her now, folded clasped in front of her and hair neatly straightened, framing her face. Her eyes leave the hazel eyed blonde and fall on the blue eyed dancer that's chatting away with a few of the dancers, since Artie had apparently left the circle. It's like gravity, like nature's calling or some shit because as soon as she focuses on Brittany, the blonde looks up and they stare intensely into each other's eyes with unresolved problems and sadness. Her hands fidget in front of her, and she can't_ not_ stare. It's like her eyes are glued in place, and her heart sinks as she watches the many emotions flash behind those usually bright blue eyes.

"Lopez,"

She finally rips her gaze away from Brittany and finds Quinn staring at her expectantly, "Earth to Santana?"

"What?" Santana hisses, a little harsher than intended.

Quinn raises an eyebrow and twists her body to face the half-circle now. There's basically a separation between the two, the employees and the dancers.

"What's going on with you two?" Quinn asks, jutting her chin forward.

She doesn't need to follow the inference, because she knows _exactly _where Brittany is. Hell, she always exactly knows where Brittany is. It's some fucked up gift that tortures her mentally.

"Nothing." Santana deadpans, crossing her arms tighter as Brittany slaps one of her colleague's arms flirtatiously. She's pretty sure the blonde's doing this on purpose, and feels the bitterness and rage roll onto her tongue. The urge to yell something explicit hovers, but she bites it down, knowing it'll just start _the talk_ and then everyone will know and if _this_ isn't enough to handle, _that_ sure as hell will be.

"I'm calling bullshit on that Lopez," Quinn crosses her arms, pressing the folder to her chest, "There's something fishy."

"Maybe you should wash then."

A sharp slap is delivered to her bicep and she cringes, "Ow, shit Fabray, what was that for?"

"You know _exactly_ what that was for. Stop being crude. Now cut the shit, what's going on?"

Santana stays quiet. She knows the silence will probably speak volumes but she doesn't know how else to respond. Is she supposed to say anything? Is there like a duty to tell Quinn, or whatever? Hell, she doesn't know. And doesn't really care. Brittany's still standing over in the corner, throwing her head back and laughing in a way that just makes Santana want to go and kiss the long slope of her neck and hold her forever. It's stupid, and _not_ what she should be focusing on, but fuck, she can't stop.

Quinn hums for a few seconds, tapping her chin with her forefinger as her eyes dart between Santana and Brittany, observing the situation. Quinn was always able to read Santana, not in the way Brittany could, because only Brittany could do that, but the hazel eyed blonde was always on the same wave length, and pretty damn smart which meant she could put pieces of the puzzle together like a damn detective. She would've made a good lawyer.

"Tell me you didn't," Quinn says, her eyes growing wide in realization, "Santana, please, tell me you didn't."

There it is. Fuck. Now what's she supposed to say.

"No," She looks away, "I didn't."

Quinn prods her in the arm harshly and she rubs it, "Stop with the physical abuse, I could take your ass down, Fabray."

"You wouldn't be getting it if you weren't so fucking stupid!"

Santana dips her head as a few of the closest dancers turn at the volume of Quinn's voice, "Damn it Fabray, keep it down."

The hazel eyed blonde brings her head closer to Santana's, "Why the fuck would you sleep with her?"

It's starting to get pretty damn annoying. Quinn judging Santana, and giving her all these looks. She doesn't need it, she knows how much of an idiot she is, she knows she shouldn't of done it. Hell she knew _during_ doing it, she shouldn't be doing it. Fuck, even Brittany knows. And she doesn't need Quinn pointing it out like it's not already eating her up inside.

"Listen," Santana retorts, pushing off the wall aggressively and spinning around to stare at Quinn. Even though the hazel eyed blonde had an inch or two on her, she still undeniably scarier, Latina's are known for being fiery and therefore, more terrifying. "I don't need a lecture, okay? I know what I did was stupid. Do you think I'd look like _this_ if I didn't know that?"

Quinn raises an eyebrow and purses her lip, scanning over Santana's _can't-be-bothered_ apperance. For a moment, Santana thinks she's going to be lectured more. But the brow drops and the blonde relaxes her shoulders, shaking her head and turning her attention back to the other dancers talking animatedly amongst each other. Then she sees Quinn reaching inside the folder and taking out a small piece of paper, or card or something. Suspicion burns through her and she cocks her head to the side slightly, trying to peer through the other girl's fingers to see what the hell was on that damn thing. The blonde pushes off the wall and moves to stand in front of Santana, blocking her from seeing Brittany. She meets Quinn's gaze and looks at her with a sadness she just can't push away.

"Santana, just think about what's going on, okay?" Quinn says, offering Santana her hand, palm down.

Santana looks at the limb quizzically for a second before placing her hand underneath, not knowing if she was supposed to do so, "I'll try."

"Please do, because anyone that knows Brittany and Santana, want Brittany and Santana to be together. Okay?"

She nods and then Quinn removes her hand, leaving a small square of paper in her head. Santana stares at it for a second and then raises both eyebrows. Quinn leans in, putting one hand on her shoulder and nearing her lips to her ear.

"You dropped this in Marbella's."

Quinn pulls away, smiles and then gives her a knowing look. Then she looks down at the square piece of paper in her hand. It's the picture of her and Brittany she found the other day.

* * *

><p><em>They walked through the mall, hand in hand, fingers laced together and grinning widely. Even though Santana hated shopping, the fact they'd just exited Victoria's Secret with some incredibly interesting garments for Brittany, she knew she could handle it. Santana was carrying most of the bags, and Brittany grinned at her attempt to be 'gentlemanly'.<em>

"_Baby," Brittany said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Santana's cheek, "You know you got that new purse?"_

_Santana raised an eyebrow and pulled her girlfriend over to the side, slipping down a small workers corridor, "Yeah…"_

"_Well, I was just thinking," She trailed a finger along Santana's collarbone, which was __**really**__ distracting, "There's a photo slot…"_

_It was almost so distracting Santana didn't realise where this conversation was going, so she nodded and stepped forward, pushing her bodies closer to Brittany's. The fact that they were in the middle of a mall completely bypassed her as she untangled their fingers and gripped the other girl's hip._

"_And we don't have a photo of us together."_

_Santana leaned in, humming as she pressed a kiss to Brittany's neck, "So?"_

_But the blonde wasn't buying the distraction technique and pushed back on Santana's shoulders, "I want one."_

"_Why? You already have me, you don't need evidence."_

_Brittany shrugged, "I don't care, I want a photo," she finished with a grin._

_And that was that. Santana knew she wasn't going to win, and so she just allowed herself to be dragged out the corridor, past a few shoppers and into a small photo booth. She was pushed down, and Brittany sat on her lap, legs thrown over her own, discarding the bags down by their feet as she slipped two dollars into the machine. Brittany's arms snaked around Santana's neck and Santana laid one arm over the top of her girlfriend's thighs and the other round the small of her back. _

_She loved being close with Brittany. Everything about her just made her want to be near her. Her smell, her hair, her personality, ah, just her in general. She didn't think she could possibly love Brittany any more. She didn't think _anyone_ could possibly love _anyone_ more than she loved Brittany. She was without a doubt, head over heels, stupidly in love with Brittany, and she loved it._

"_Fine," Santana huffed, tightening her grip as Brittany tilted her chin towards the camera as the countdown on the screen begun. But the natural rebellious teen was encoded in her muscles, so when the first photo snapped, she buried her face behind Brittany's arm and then chuckled._

"_San!" Brittany whined, slapping her arm playfully._

_Santana raised her head and kissed her girlfriend's cheek quickly, "I hate photos."_

"_Well deal with it," Brittany said firmly, furrowing her brow, "I want one."_

_She shook her head and waited for the countdown again, just as it approached one, she raised her hand and pushed it towards the small circle above the screen where the camera was located. It wasn't intentional to piss Brittany off, but as she pulled back and saw the blonde pouting and frowning, she knew she had._

"_Santana Marie Lopez!" Brittany half-yelled, shuffling around Santana until she was half-straddling her, "Stop being a big meanie and take a picture with me!"_

_Santana chuckled, "Technically, I __**am**__ taking a picture with you."_

_Brittany jutted her lower lip out further and even though she was supposed to look angry, to Santana she just looked damn adorable. So she scrunched her nose, craned her neck up and nuzzled her nose against Brittany's. But the blonde crossed her arm and hunched her back over, apparently she wasn't buying it._

"_Baby," Santana purred as she kissed her way up to Brittany's ear, "I'm sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?" She whispered, tugging her girlfriend's earlobe between her teeth._

_Brittany knew what she was inferring. Hell, anyone would know what she was inferring if she'd heard the seductive tone she'd said it in. But Brittany knew to play dirty, just as well as Santana did, so she pulled back, smiled and said, "Take a picture with me, where you won't ruin it."_

_She rolled her eyes and exhaled heavily, "Fine, fine, fine. Whatever makes you happy."_

"_Good. Because this is our last picture."_

_Brittany pressed the button and the countdown began again. Santana trailed her finger over her girlfriend's brow, down her temple and cheek until she found her lips. Her thumb traced the outside of her girlfriend's bottom lip and Brittany turned instinctively, leaning down and pressing a quick, soft kiss to her lips before spinning back to the camera and grinning, pulling Santana's head into her chest. But that wasn't enough for Santana, so she bared her teeth, furrowed her brows and crossed her eyes. The click went off and Brittany immediately looked down to Santana who remained with the face she was pulling._

"_I'm Bernard," Santana grumbled in a deep voice, "I don't like me no pictures."_

_Brittany giggled whilst pouting. Now that, was the most adorable thing she'd ever seen. The whole 'Bernard' thing was some lame thing they'd made up in High School, and she knew it'd let her off the hook a bit for ruining the picture._

"_Not funny San." Brittany whispered after breathing out her chuckles._

_Santana nuzzled her nose against her girlfriends, removing the face she was pulling, "I beg to differ."_

_But the blonde was firm. She pulled back; pouting and frowning so all the creases were visible on her perfect skin. Santana withdrew the hand she had on the small of Brittany's back and brought it up to trace her finger pads along the lines, trying to make them disappear._

"_I'm sorry baby, again. I'll put another two dollars in and we'll take some more pictures okay?"_

_As soon as blue eyes locked with brown, Santana felt guilty. It was clear Brittany wanted a picture, and Santana made a joke of it. But now she was just feeling bad, so she pressed a soft kiss to the side of Brittany's neck and twisted in the stool, leaning one hand out and pressing one of the buttons on the screen to follow Brittany as she was turning away too._

"_Baby," Santana called, sliding her hand up the other girl's shoulder to cup her cheek, "I'm sorry and I love you."_

_It took a few seconds, but Brittany's body relaxed and she let a small smile grace her face as her hands slid around Santana's neck. She leaned in, lowering her head until Santana let out a small moan as their lips met gently. Santana snaked her hand around to Brittany's hip, pulling her side against her body as the other hand curled around the blonde's thigh. They moulded together and she let herself sink into the kiss, sighing as their lips parted and breaths mingled together. She'd never tire of kissing Brittany; it was in her top three favourite things in the world. All of which included her girlfriend._

_But a beeping broke them out of their kiss and Brittany pulled back abruptly, grinning widely as she faced the camera. However Santana was still dazed from the kiss, and she applied a bit more pressure to the hand on her girlfriend's hips, allowing her tongue to dart out over her own lips to feel the remains of her girlfriend on them as she stared up at Brittany. Damn, she tasted so much better than a person should._

"_Smile," Brittany let out as her hand curled around the nape of Santana's neck._

_And then the camera clicked, with Santana staring adoringly at her girlfriend. Brittany clapped once and swung open the curtain, hopping out before Santana finally managed to get her head in gear and exited, with bags in hand. The blonde was bouncing in her stance, waiting as the booth made a strange, mechanical noise and the pictures popped out._

_Brittany frowned at the first three, before Santana sidled up beside her and stood behind her, one hand palming the blondes abs, whilst the other gripped the blonde's waist after shuffling the bags up her forearm. Her chin met Brittany's shoulder and she peered over, eyeing up the ridiculous pictures and watching as blue eyes sparkled as they settled on the last one._

"_San, you look so cute," Brittany exclaimed, turning her head to press a kiss to Santana's temple._

_Santana frowned, "I'm not cute."_

_A pale finger pointed to the photo and traced around Santana's glazed eyes and puppy dog smile, "I think you are," Brittany said softly, scrunching up her nose._

_Santana sighed and released the blonde, lacing their fingers together as they headed for the exit of the mall, Brittany still gazing at the pictures of them. She looked over her shoulder at her girlfriend, taking in her innocence, her beauty and just the goodness of the girl. It was hard to believe she was so to have found Brittany, and fallen in love with her. But what was even harder to believe, was that somehow, by some luck in the world, Brittany loved her back._

_And despite all her fighting or rebellion against actually having a photo taken, that picture was definitely going to be framed and put in her purse._

* * *

><p>"Where'd you go?"<p>

Santana snaps out of her daze and looks towards the person addressing her. Brittany's standing there, biting her bottom lip and fiddling with the hem of her shirt. It was one of the habits Santana had come to know and love over the years, it was a nervous one, and a sign that the blonde wasn't comfortable, but it was just too damn adorable.

"What?"

Brittany raises an eyebrow, in a knowing manner. It's pretty fucking annoying that the blonde still knows her that well.

"Daydream." Santana deadpans, feeling all the awkwardness settle in as the previous night came crashing down on her.

Brittany sidles up beside her, arms brushing as they both subconsciously lean against the wall, "San, can we talk?"

"About what Britt?" It's a little sharper than intended, and she immediately feels the wave of regret wash over her. Fucking brilliant.

Brittany seems to be fixed on talking about the subject, so she moves in front of Santana and crosses her arms, face contorting into a half-sad, half-unimpressed expression, "About last night."

Santana gulps audibly, dips her head. This is _really_ not the place to be having this conversation, in a room full of strangers that are most likely listening. She doesn't even want to have the damn talk, why can't Brittany see that? She closes her eyes and hopes to God, something will save her from the conversation. Even if it's in the form of Rachel Berry.

"Santana!" Rachel calls from across the room, beckoning her forward with a wave of her hand.

The immediate urge to rebel burns through her body, but she can either deal with Brittany or Rachel, and right now, even Berry seems like a better idea. So she offers the blonde a small smile and moves past her, almost fainting at the way Brittany's send smacks her in the face as their shoulders brush. It's pretty damn annoying, being able to sense what Brittany was feeling, because right now the hurt, she knows the blonde's feeling, settles in her gut comfortably, and she really fucking hates it.

She approaches Rachel and shoves her hands into her pockets, "What?"

"I was wondering," Rachel says, looping her arm through Santana's and dragging her out into the hallway. Within a second, she rips her arms out of the shorter blonde's and offers a _really?_ Face – which Rachel conveniently misses, "If you'd stop doing whatever you're doing to Brittany."

This cannot be happening. Santana stares down incredulously at the small brunette and her eyebrows meet her hairline. For a second she debates whether she actually heard Rachel right, and thinks of her words as her mouth drops open. Insults brim on the tip of her tongue and she bites them down, curious about Rachel's knowledge.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She replies non-chalantly, taking her hands out her pockets and heading towards the bench in the hallway.

Rachel follows and sits down, tapping it, gesturing for the other brunette to sit. Of course, she doesn't. "There's something going on between you and Brittany, and I'm afraid affecting and disrupting the atmosphere of the household."

Santana rolls her eyes, "So?"

"So," Rachel stands, smoothing out the front of her plaid skirt. Damn, she still wears those things? "You should care."

She shrugs, "Well I don't."

"You should."

"Look, Berr-"

"No," Rachel raises a hand, stopping the other brunette from speaking. Santana knows her eyes and widening, and facial expression lacing with disbelief – it was weird talking to _this_ Berry. "You _do_ care. Quinn and I have discussed this at length and we both thing you two should sort out whatever's going on between you."

Why doesn't that surprise her? Quinn and Rachel talking about her behind her back. Big surprise. "Of course you two have been talking about me."

"Oh don't get ahead of yourself Santana. We're only concerned for Brittany's wellbeing."

Santana scoffs, "Well _I'm_ looking out for Brittany's well-being too, and frankly I don't need a dwarf from the Snow White reject collection telling me what to do."

She paces up and down the hallway, putting one hand to her hip as the fingers on her other hand rub at her temple, "I'm not here to sort out whatever this _thing _is between me and Britt. I'm here to do my job. Too protect Brittany and be her bodyguard. That's what I want to do."

The Jewish girl sits back down on the bench and crosses on leg over the other. Her face is twisting with disappointment and anger, and she observes Santana for a moment, furrowing her brow and biting on her bottom lip. Santana waits it out, crossing her arm as she leans her left shoulder against the wall. Why does everyone feel the need to examine her? She's not in a bloody zoo. First Blaine, then Quinn and now Rachel. Fucking hell, take a damn break, she wants to be left the hell alone.

"Have you ever thought about what she wants?"

The question leaves Santana speechless. She runs her tongue along the back of her teeth and clenches her jaw. It's not out of aggression, it's out of annoyance. And not even for Rachel. She's annoyed at herself. Truth be told, she hadn't even really asked what Brittany wanted, hadn't even thought about it. All she'd been doing was running off her own feelings, worrying about herself when she should've put Brittany put.

Admittedly, she hadn't been entirely fixated on herself, the thought of how she was effecting Brittany did cross her mind as their mouths brushed against once another, limbs entangled and naked bodies moved together – hell, she spent eighty percent of her brain focused on what the spontaneous sex was doing to _both _of them, instead of what she was _doing_ to Brittany. She fucking hates herself for it, like _really _fucking hate herself now.

And she bangs her head against the side of the wall and rolls it from back and forth, prolonging the pain she knows deserves, in any way to punish herself for it. And what's even more annoying, to top it all off, Rachel fucking Berry had pointed it out. It wasn't the main factor, but it was definitely a contributing one to her anger and annoyance.

Santana glances up, seeing Rachel in front of her, reaching her hand out to rest it on her shoulder. She supresses the urge to shrug it off as soon as it lands on her, but instead brown eyes lock with similar brown;

"Just think about it Santana, and please make your mind up soon." Rachel says, rubbing the hand on Santana's shoulder in a circular, reassuring motion before heading away, back towards the living room.

"You know maybe you should think about yours too."

Rachel halts and Santana slowly walks up behind her, "Maybe you should make your mind up."

The smaller girl turns, "What?"

"You and Quinn," Santana shrugs. For once, she's not actually making jokes or being crude, she's speaking with clear sincerity, "She likes you, you like her."

Rachel smiles weakly, "It's not that simple though, is it?"

Santana hears the double meaning. Yeah she definitely knows it's not that easy. Nothing ever is. She inhales deeply, feeling her heart ache as she dips her head and nods slowly in defeat, "Guess so."

They don't speak as they walk back into the living room.

* * *

><p>By the time they reach the living room, all the furniture has been pushed to the side to create a make-shift dance studio. God knows why they couldn't go to one of the <em>actual<em> dance studios, but hey, who's Santana to argue. She heads towards the far corner, taking refuge in the armchair, and propping her feet up on the bookshelf, ankles crossed as she stares out the window, watching the raindrops trailing down the window pane slowly.

She's aware that Artie's showing Brittany a certain move, and that his hands are moving carelessly and clumsily across her perfect abs, and it's taking everything she has no to snatch them off her. But judging by the evils she's receiving from Quinn, and the sad eyes from Brittany, she can't exactly do anything.

"Kelly!" Artie yells towards a small redhead, watching them by the side-lines, "Come here."

The redhead walks over, chest pushed out and smile confident. It immediately reminds Santana of the annoying, stuck up friends she used to hang out with and she tries to take comfort in the fact the out of the heart-wrenching break-up, came one good thing – not having to hang out with _that_ type anymore, Brittany's friends. She snorts to herself and crosses her arm, leaving her fingertips to linger over the butt of her holstered gun.

It's heavy underneath her shoulder, and she frowns as she feels an itch form at the back of her neck. Her immediate reaction is to brush it away with a flick of her head, and she does so, but it still continues. It's the same one she got the day of marking the gaps in the fences, and she scans around the rooms, searching the thirty or so faces for any suspicious movement. There's something there, something lingering and she can't find it.

Quinn approaches her, leaving Puck to exit out one of the side doors. The hazel eyed blonde sits on the arm of the chair, leaning down and whispering a quiet, "what?" into her ear.

Santana turns and shakes her head, "I don't know."

It's true, she doesn't know. She doesn't have a fucking clue what the hell that itch is, but it's bad. Nothing good has come from that itch. Rutherford getting shot, the SUV following the Limo, even the damn attack that caused the knife into her damn hand, all of it came from that fucking itch and she can't find the source of it now.

Santana glances around; clenching her jaw as she lands upon the blonde she's looking for, head dipped, fiddling with her fingers and taking a quick look at the dancing in front of her every now and then. There's a sadness that radiates off Brittany, and it physically hurts to see the blonde like this. The usual cheeriness that Brittany always beams and Santana hates the way the guilt settles in her gut. Her eyes find Rachel who's laughing away, hand pressed to her chest and head thrown back. She then looks to Quinn who's staring at her, head cocked slightly to the side and eyes adoring. There's something sickly about it, but it's kind of sweet, she guesses. Even if it is in a weird, ex-bully way.

But then she hears it. Her head snaps round faster than usual, and the innate zoom burned into her brain to find Brittany kicks in. However the blonde isn't in the armchair she was a second ago and suddenly Santana's up, heart pounding and sweat forming. She palms her gun in her left hand as she waves with her right to part the sea of people crowded in the centre of the room. Quinn's calling her name but she doesn't care as she practically sprints down the hallway to where she _knows_ Brittany is. Guess that damn sense comes in handy sometimes.

When she reaches the furthest door, she pauses briefly, pressing her shoulder and half her back into the door as she twists the doorknob and flicks off the safety switch on her gun. With a quick, soft exhale, the door clicks and she pushes it open slightly, preparing herself for whatever is inside.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, I know that chapter wasn't very interesting but hopefully the next one will be.<strong>

**Please review! Thank you!**


	11. chapter ten

**Right, let me just start by saying I am so unbelievably sorry for the wait on this update. I know it's been like freakin' ages, but I had writers block and couldn't push past it. However, this is an incredibly long chapter and I hope it kind of makes up for it!**

**Thank you if you're still hanging on with this story, I love you dearly all you loyal readers. And I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong> After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>Unfortunately, I don't own anything to do with Glee. Sucks to be me.

* * *

><p><strong>The Bodyguard:<br>Chapter Ten**

_With a quick, soft exhale, the door clicks and she pushes it open slightly, preparing herself for whatever is inside._

It only takes a second before she zones in on Brittany standing by the side of the bed, cradling her face and sobbing loudly into her hands. Her eyes do a quick scan of the room, pin pointing on a cream envelope sitting on the bed, and then to a still-swinging door on the other side of the room – which she knows leads a set of stairs leading to the east wing hallway on the second floor. Quinn, Rachel and Sam burst into the room a second later, and Santana juts her chin towards Brittany quickly, silently asking one of them to comfort the dancer whilst her legs lead her towards the open door.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn engulf the other blonde into a hug, and she backs up to the door frame, peering round the corner and up the stairs, knowing Brittany's safe. Her heart is beating at a rapid pace as she feels her trigger finger twitch with anticipation and she slips around the door and up the stairs, eyes darting to spot every moving thing like she's some type of hyper-sensitive being. She reaches the top step, and approaches the first door, to her left, and glances inside, seeing nothing but an empty dance studio. There are way too many fucking rooms in this house; it's just setting up an easy game of manhunt with Brittany as the bait, and the odds of winning weighing on the psycho's side.

The itch is back, crawling down her spine and she realizes what it means. She's been fighting it, and instead of doing so again, she allows the itch to tug at her neck, twisting it until she's facing down the hallway. A dark figure catches her eye. Her stomach drops and mouth runs dry, but she manages to shake herself out of it and in a split second she's dropped her gun-wielding arm, and is sprinting after him. This guy's fast, and Santana's forcing her leg muscles faster as she passes several rooms with a comical whoosh. The figure slips on the floor as they come to the T junction at the end, and hits the opposite wall, shoulder first. But he quickly recovers, scrambling to his feet and rounding the corner to the right.

Momentarily, he's out of her sight and she feels uneasy because of it, knowing Brittany's less than a safe distance away from him, and God knows how well that fucking psycho knows the layout of the house. She weighs out the options of the intruders direction. From turning left, he's heading to a dead end, or into one of the four rooms located down that hallway.

The gun is still clasped in her left hand, and she slows down, edging her back up against the wall as she pants heavily. Adrenaline is pulsing through her veins and she feels her face grow hot, half with fear and half with some type of twisted excitement. She's desperate to catch him. To get him, preferably beat the shit out of him and get out of here before she has an emotional breakdown or hurts herself, more. A couple of seconds later, she spins around the corner, gun raised and braced for any sudden movement.

Down the bottom of the hallway is a large, glass window stretching from the ceiling to the floor and her eyes dart between the four doors, three of which are open. Her left hand clenches and releases on the butt of the gun, she's a second away from pulling the trigger and she needs to calm herself. Shooting the guy won't do anything but create more drama, and possibly a criminal record, but she needs to protect herself. So she flicks on the safety and keeps the gun raised. The intruder won't know the safety's on.

"Give it up," Santana yells, "You've got nowhere to go."

A shuffling answers her words, and she peers into the first room, revealing nothing but a TV room. The next is the same, but instead of a TV room, there's some sort of conference room or something. She heads towards the second to last door, and glances in, it's a bedroom. Something resembling fear shoots through her chest, and her eyes flicker towards the last, shut door. The guy's got to be in there, hell, there isn't anywhere else to go. It's about three feet away from her, and she raises her gun higher, straightening her left arm, two fingers on the trigger and her right hand cupping her other.

"Just come out," She warns, "You can't run anymore."

The sun is beating down through the glass pane, and she cautiously steps forward towards the door, momentarily loosening one arm and raising it, blocking the sun from obscuring her vision. But the door swings wide open at that precise moment, of course, and the figure comes barrelling out, barging past Santana. The next thing she hears is the sound of the glass window shattering into millions of pieces as she focuses on the figure flying through the air outside.

She gasps, watching him land and roll, before pushing up and grasping his arm. From the second floor, Santana watches quickly as the figure removes his hand from the wound, revealing a large gash in his black sweatshirt and going through to his skin. She only hesitates for a second longer before her legs are catapulting her through the window after the man.

It's a pretty, damn stupid idea. One she hadn't actually thought about before doing. And now as she's flying through the air, the ground inching towards her at a rapid pace, she's beginning to realise _how_ stupid jumping out the window after the intruder _actually is_. And how those few seconds she would've taken to think about it, definitely would've benefitted her as she's pretty sure there's rocks or sharp things beneath the patch of soil she's hurtling herself at.

But Santana bends her knees and braces her shoulder, rolling with precision and sliding to her feet before running right after him, sprinting through the foliage and through the forest, Brittany calls her garden.

The figures about ten feet in front of her, and her collar is flapping against the side of her neck. Her palm slides down her ribs, before meeting an empty holster. _Fuck._ Her gun must have fallen out when she rolled. But there's no time to waste, so she pumps her legs hard and fast before spotting an tree with apples hanging off it, up ahead. It's pretty fucking strange, an apple tree amidst all these exotic plants but hey, it's Brittany's house. She wouldn't be surprised if there was a tree with ducks perching on it, because somehow, Brittany would get it and make it last.

She quickly leaps, stretching her arm high as she grabs an apple, halting her movement. She throws her arm back, before chucking it with as much strength as she can towards the figure that's also stopped. But he's fast. Really fucking fast, and he spins just in time, catching the fruit as it about an inch away from his face and Santana widens her eyes. _Damn._

He lets out a muffled, barking laugh, and before she can yell anything, he's off again, deeper into the foliage where Santana knows the trees get thicker and light becomes rarer. It's not like she's scared, because she's not, but if she had a choice – she wouldn't be heading towards a dark area with a psychotic freak less than a bus length away from her. Kind of a logical thought.

She races forward, whipping her head from side to side as she searches for his darkened figure. Her heart beat is pounding in her ears, and her chest is heaving at a rapid pace. She's searching but she can't find him. He's not here; he's literally nowhere to be seen. She's fucking lost him.

"Fuck!" Santana half-yells into the dark forest. She palms her forehead and rubs down her face with more force than necessary – but she's pissed, so she doesn't care that the bridge of her nose is rejecting the pressure.

She turns around, and glances around one final time, trying to make out any figure moving around in the darkness. But it doesn't change anything. There's just the sway of the oak tree to her right, and the sound of a road coming from her right. She slumps against a tree, sliding down it with the bark digging into her back as she cradles her head in her hands and tries to slow her breath and calm her nerves. _Damn it._ She could've fucking had him. That's the second fucking time and she didn't get him again. That fucker is _fast._

After smacking herself in the forehead a couple more times, she throws her head back and growls to herself before setting off back into the direction of the house.

Damn it.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, she's walking up the marble steps with aching thigh muscles. She runs her hand through her hair, not even noticing it fell out of its ponytail as she's still focused on the frustration of losing the guy for a second damn time.<p>

"Santana?"

She snaps her head up to see Puck standing at the top of the stairs, hands tucked inside of his blazer on his hips with the flaps of his blazer resting on the back of his arms.

"Did you get him?"

When she reaches the top step, she rests her forehead against the pane of the doorframe, as the door is open, and rolls it from side to side. She then shakes her head, "No, fucker got again," she grits out, "Again."

Puck grabs her by the elbow and leads her in the house, leaving his head and peaking around the garden a final time before shutting it and flicking the latch on. She narrows her eyes quizzically and raises an eyebrow.

"Just in case," He reassures, "He's got in once, he'll get in again."

"Considering he jumped through a fucking window, I don't think a damn latch is gonna prevent him from getting in, Noah."

Puck's eyebrows meet his finely trimmed hairline, "Just because you lost him, doesn't mean you can take it out on me, Lopez."

It's the first time she's ever heard him address her aggressively, and she straightens her back and cocks her head to the side, "What?"

"Just because your fucked up feelings for Britt are getting in the way of your job, doesn't mean you can take it out on everyone else."

Anger flashes through her, "Fuck off, Puckerman. You know shit."

He takes a challenging step forward, "I know more than you think. So straighten the fuck up and get a grip. You're here to do your damn job, not to fuck your boss."

She feels her fist clench and shake by her side, and before she knows it she's shoving him forcefully in the chest. After knowing Puck for years, she thought he would've known where not to cross the line. However considering what he just said, she assumes not.

Puck rubs his chest after staggering a few steps backwards, and she smirks inwardly, but knowing her current, angered expression won't change just because of the satisfaction.

"What the fuck, Lopez?" Puck yells, leaving it to echo through the empty hallway.

But she can't answer. Her eyes are wide and fiery, and her fists are still shaking. There's red in front of her eyes and she's struggling to hold back the irrational urge to punch him. She knows there's a certain amount of truth behind his words, and she's pretty sure that's what's causing her to react like this. But it doesn't minimise her fury. The more she thinks about it, the more the bitter venom gurgles at the back of her tongue.

"What the hell is going on?"

Santana turns and sees Quinn standing at the base of the stairs, eyebrows rising expectantly and arms crossed. Hazel eyes dart between the two agents, as if Quinn's trying to figure out which one to shove out the room before all hell breaks loose. "Well?"

Puck flares his nostrils and exhales loudly, lowering his head slightly, "Yeah Santana, what's going on?"

Quinn steps down a few and Santana purses her lips into an 'o' shape and tries to slow down her quickened heartbeat. The shakes in her fists subside as soon as she sees Brittany descending the stairs, with Rachel's arm wrapped around her mid-section soothing her.

"Is she okay?" She asks, completely disregarding Puck's comment and Quinn's question, not wanting to talk about it as she knows the chances of _that_ situation ending up with her first crashing into Puck's nose with a sickening crunch, is incredibly high.

The smaller blonde glances up to Brittany and then back. It seems as if Quinn senses Santana's reluctance, because she squints quickly and nods, "She's fine. Did you catch him?"

And the anger's back again. "No."

Rachel and Brittany reach the bottom of the stairs to join Quinn, and only seconds later Santana feels her skin spike as Brittany edges towards her wearily. She wants to move back, even if it's only an inch or so, to minimise the pinching at her skin, but she won't. Brittany's scared and her damn feelings aren't allowing her to move, she still wants to comfort Brittany. She still cares. How could she not?

There's an awkward silence for a few long seconds, and her sight flickers between all of the faces in the room. Quinn's staring at her, Rachel's staring at her, hell, even Puck's staring at her. But the fact Brittany isn't, hurts more than she thought it would.

"Santana," Rachel speaks, breaking the silence, "Sam and I had an idea upstairs."

Quinn turns and furrows her brows, her body tensing noticeably, "You did?"

The smaller brunette smiles weakly and nods as if to say _trust me_ and Quinn settles back down. It's _so _on between those two it's unreal. "Yes, we did."

Rachel runs her hand up Brittany's back, tapping her reassuring before stepping away and towards Santana, "Sam and I believe it would be a good idea if there was a higher level of security inside the house. At all times."

It's a good idea. Then again, as much as Santana hates to admit it, Rachel's ideas are good, _most of the time_. Not that she'd ever tell her, Rachel doesn't need to get more egotistical – that would be pretty hard to handle. "Okay."

"Well, as long as you agree, I think it'd be best to let you know the ideas Sam and I discussed in terms of this increased security."

Santana blinks, "Yeah…"

"Well, as you know, you've been hired as Brittany's bodyguard."

She nods.

"This entails you being Brittany's _personal _bodyguard, as in looking out for her _personally._" Rachel says, hanging on words to emphasise them.

Santana doesn't really get where this is going. She knows her damn job. She's been doing it for like two months, or however long she's been here. Come to think of it, she doesn't know how long she's been here. Time just _flies_ when you're having fun. "I know my job description, Berry."

Rachel shares a look with Quinn before the blonde steps in, "No, Santana, I think what she's trying to say is _you_ are the increased security, inside the house."

Brittany's eyes widen in realisation. Puck tenses. But Santana's still clueless. Why the hell do Quinn and Rachel look so damn worried about her reaction? It's a good idea, increased security means Brittany's safer. Which makes Santana's job easier…? _Oh hell no._

"Wait," Santana says, firmly, "You want _me_ to stay here?"

Quinn takes a tentative step forward and slides off her glasses, "Well, yeah Santana. It is your _job_."

She hears the snarky comment and grits her teeth, murmuring to herself not to hit Quinn several times over. Her eyes dart between Brittany who's looking at her with hopeful blue and Rachel who's giving her a look that she knows is relating to their earlier conversation. The decision's already been made, and the worst part is she knows she can't even object.

"As in, move up here? Like, live," She points to the floor, "_Here?_"

The mere thought makes Santana's stomach drop. As if it wasn't hard enough, being in the pool house, less than a hundred metres away from Brittany, knowing Brittany's just _lying_ in bed - blonde hair splayed across the pillow, pale skin gleaming in the moonlight and dressed in _very little_ clothing. Damn, if it wasn't for the situation she'd be turned on with that though. No, wait, yeah, she's turned on.

But, anyway, back to the _actual_ situation, Santana's going to have to be less than _ten_ metres away from Brittany, down the hallway, a few weak walls separating the two. Fuck, it's gonna take a hell of a lot of will power to do that. And there's only so much Santana has since they…

"Fine," she growls, interrupting her own train of thought. Right now, she doesn't need the thought of Brittany in bed roaming about in her mind. That'd definitely be counterproductive. "I'll get my stuff from the pool house."

"Actually," Rachel steps closer, "I sent Karofsky to move your stuff whilst you were out."

Santana cocks her head to the side and runs her tongue along her bottom lip. "You've already done it?"

"Yeah, Br-," Rachel widens her eyes, "Quinn said you'd given in… Hope you don't mind."

Santana's eyes narrow. She doesn't know whether to be pissed off or not. She didn't miss the little slip-up of Berry's – which just means that Brittany knows her well enough to know that she wouldn't say no. And now she's indecisive to whether to be angry that someone, scratch that, Brittany _still_ knows her that well. But it's boring, pretending two years would turn her back into a strange. It's repetitive and dull, and she just needs to get over it.

So she settles for a low mumble, "Whatever."

Brittany's rubbing her forearm, biting her lip and looking at Santana through watery blue and all she wants to do is kick herself, or throw herself down the stairs – anything to take away the distract her from the sadness dwelling in the deep blue she's become so accustomed too.

And then she trudges up the stairs towards her new bedroom – which of course, is directly next to Brittany's. Whoop-de-_fucking -_doo.

* * *

><p>It's about two hours later, and a hell of a lot darker when Santana makes her way downstairs after settling into her room. Rachel gave her a quick tour of the upstairs, even though she knows it like the back of her hand and then she went to unpack. Granted, it shouldn't have taken two hours, but she needed time to process and think about a few times – all of which are to do with Brittany.<p>

With the blonde still running through her mind, she pinches the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb and rubs gently as she heads down the stairs. It's frustrating being in this damn house, and she hasn't even been here a day. There's always _someone _around, whether it's a maid checking in, or Quinn wandering about, or of course, Brittany – seeing as it is her house.

The luxury of living in the pool house was that no matter how hard or tough her day was, she could always crack open a beer, slouch on the sofa with feet propped up on the coffee table and watch re-runs of some reality show or something, _alone._ There was no-one checking in on her, there was no background noise, no muffled conversations, and she didn't have to constantly keep checking over her shoulder to see if someone was standing there, watching her.

Santana walks into the kitchen, still grasping the bridge of her nose and it's only when she bumps her hip into the side counter that she glances up to find Artie and Brittany in there too. Her lip curls up a little without her realizing it, and she feels off balance, like Brittany should be next to her, propping her up. There's an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach and she swallows thickly, before forcing her feet to do _anything._ Otherwise she'd just stand there looking like a complete ass, and she doesn't want to add _knob head_ to the _long _list of what she feels like right now.

She chooses to try her best to completely ignore what they're doing but ducking her head, and heading for the glass cabinet… Which just so happens to be above the counter Brittany's perching on, with fucking Artie right in fucking front of her, practically drooling as her knees are either side of his fucking skinny body. Not that she cares or anything.

Deep breaths taken, she decides to completely disregard them and practically barges Artie out the way as she leans up to the cabinet beside Brittany's head and grabs a glass. The quick hitching of breath coming from the blonde's body makes her whole body tense, but she makes sure she doesn't react visually. She won't give Brittany that satisfaction. After all, everything's still up in the air between them, everything's still messed up and confused, and Santana knows she needs to make some serious choices – but she's prone to running away from things she doesn't want to face. So instead she twists away quickly, and makes her way over to the sink.

Whilst turning on the tap, she can't help but unconsciously perk up her ear as Brittany and Artie muffle their conversation, which seems pretty intense judging by their heightened tones. She throws a quick, but subtle, look over her shoulder to see the skinny dancer staring straight at her with a judgemental expression. Then she flickers towards Brittany who's propping her chin on her knee as it's now raised on the counter, with her eyes cast downward, clouding with sadness. Why the hell did she look?

It hurts to see Brittany like this, and she tries to fight the urge to want to know, no, scratch that, to _need_ to know the reason– because she does. All the fights, all the ridiculous bickers and unspoken words which both of them know, are true are still there, lingering and hanging heavily inside of her – but seeing the blonde sad just pushed them to the back of Santana's brain, and pre-military Santana kicks in. It's just a reaction, and she hasn't quite got the knack of how to handle that yet.

"I don't want to leave you in here with _her."_

Santana almost whips around at the malicious tone Artie's using towards her, but she keeps her head straight, trained on the darkness of the window. In the reflection, she can make out the dull outline of Brittany and Artie, and watches as the blonde tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, and spares a glance towards her.

"I'll be fine, Artie. Stop being ridiculous."

She knows they're supposed to be hushed whispers, but there's an obvious aggression in both their voices that kind of creates a problem when it comes to the supposed low volume.

Within a few seconds, she flicks the tap off and grabs an apple, before heading towards the door. It only catches her attention now that Brittany's the only one in the kitchen, but she tries to ignore it. All she wants to do is keep her head down, drink her water, eat her apple and go to bed. It's not like she's asking for world peace.

But just as she reaches the door, a soft voice halts her movement. "Santana?"

Santana rolls her eyes and twists the glass in her hand, inwardly debating whether to keep walking or not. Grudgingly, she ends up turning around anyway. It's not like she _actually _had a choice.

"What?" Their eyes connect and Santana swallows dryly. Brittany pretty much looks like a kicked puppy, all vulnerable and innocent – and all the resolve in the back of her mind crumbles instantly. Fucking injustice.

"H-how are you?"

Santana's eyes widen. She's confused, and resisting the urge to scoff. Pretty stupid fucking question for Brittany to ask. But she answers anyway. "What does it matter?" She spits back. Yeah, she's not rude, but angry – yeah, definitely.

"I just want to know."

"Why?"

Brittany slips off the counter, revealing the small tank top that's riding half-way up her abs and showing said delicious abs. Damn, imagine licking whipped cream off those things. Oh no, wait, Santana doesn't have to… Fuck! Seriously, is Brittany purposely trying to torment her? Because it's fucking working.

"Because I care." Brittany says, lowly.

This time Santana _does _scoff, "You _care?_"

"Of course I do." Brittany explains like it's obvious.

Santana just slams down her glass a little harder than necessary and basically throws her apple half-way across the kitchen, where is lands with perfection back into the fruit bowl, before locking onto the top of Brittany's head, since it's ducked. Adrenaline pumps through her veins because she's not entirely sure of what she's supposed to say, or even what she wants to say. Her heart pounds, and there's a small regret growing larger, day by day, saying that she shouldn't have taken this stupid, damn job. And that reflects on the words that come out her mouth, because they're harsher than she intended. It's like an alter-ego takes over her and says things, kind of like the incredible hulk – she just can't stop it.

"I'm not _yours_ to care about anymore."

Blue eyes snap up to connect with hers, and she swallows against the hurt flashing behind them. They stare for long moments, brown flickering between blue, before Brittany inhales deeply and steps closer to Santana, causing her to back up against the counter.

"Yes, you are." Brittany says, firmly.

Santana shakes her head, staring seriously into Brittany's eyes. "No. I'm not."

Brittany looks at her through thick lashes, and it makes her feel about an inch tall. "Do you even believe yourself?"

"Yes."

The blonde licks her lips, narrows her eyes and then lets them flicker down to Santana's mouth. "Bullshit."

Santana's brow furrows, and her stomach twists with the implications. Brittany's always been able to read her, and she's not sure why she's so pissed off that it's still the same. No, wait. She _does _know why. She's pissed because she's not with Brittany, she's pissed because they spent two years without any contact, she's pissed because Brittany was the one person in her god for saken life that could actually brighten her day and she's _especially _pissed because it's not Brittany's place to call her on her bullshit anymore. That chain was broken a long time ago, along with her heart, and there's no way in hell Brittany can just come waltzing back, picking up the pieces and think it's okay to know her the way she used too.

"And it's not your damn place to call me on my bullshit anymore."

Brittany narrows her eyes, quizzically. "Why?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

Santana's face screws up a little as if she's trying to find the right way of putting it. "Because you just can't. There's so many damn reasons, but I'm not even going to give you the time of day to explain because it's not going to change a damn thing. So just _because_, okay?"

"That's not good enough."

Jerking her head back a little, Santana scowls. "Do I look like I give a damn if you think that's enough or not?"

"Yes." Brittany counters, firmly.

Santana tries to step backwards, but the counter hitting her butt tells her she can't move any further. Brittany tilts her head to the side, and continues forward until they're about an inch away from each other. The silver specks in Brittany's eyes are clear from this distance, and every stupid yet unique freckle on her face is visible. Her stomach's tightening uncomfortable and she feels the spike of anger in her veins, infiltrating her arteries.

"Well I don't," Brown eyes flicker between blue rapidly,"…care."

Brittany smiles weakly. "Yeah, you do."

"No," Santana says, "I don't."

Blue eyes flicker down to the floor, "I still care." Brittany confesses in a low, voice that could be mistaken for a whimper.

She closes her eyes as the words ring through her ears. Everything seems distant and so surreal, and the thought whether this is actually real runs through her brain. It's not like she doubted that Brittany still cared her, because it was and still is pathetically obvious how into each other they still are, how pathetically and miserably in love with each other they still are. But she can't focus because all she can see is the image of Brittany walking out the door with bags in hand, flashing through her mind. All she can see is the pain and hurt she suffered, what she went through in the following days and months after Brittany left, and how she spent the majority practically curled up in a ball on the floor, crying her eyes out and wishing her life away.

To say she's conflicted is putting it mildly.

On one hand, the four words are brimming on the tip of her tongue and the urge to say them just burns through her – because she is, whether she accepts it or not – still completely and madly in love with Brittany, and always has been. She twiddles her thumbs, having a hard time figuring out what she's supposed to say or do with herself, because Brittany's right there, in front of her and staring at her expectantly. But she's spent so long building up these walls around her heart, each brick being laid at a painfully slow rate until she's up to her neck in protection, and she can't just let it crumble down because Brittany _decided_ to come back into her life, and destroy everything she's built. It's not what she wanted. It's not what she wants.

"Do I still have reason to hold on?" Brittany whispers, bringing her forefinger up to tilt Santana's head up by her chin.

She fights the urge to slap away the hand, and instead focuses on the intensely blue orbs boring into her brown ones. Anger's boiling up inside of her, and she closes her eyes at the bubbling. Sighing in response, Santana slides out from the space Brittany's trapped her in and basically stumbles over to the opposite counter.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she inhales deeply, trying to regulate her breathing because she's not entirely sure her lungs are functioning properly. She felt the way Brittany's shoulders sagged and body deflated as she escaped her grasp – and she so desperately wants to make it go away. But it's not that simple, nothing ever is.

It's only when she turns around that she sees Brittany slowly heading out the kitchen with a ducked head. Her palms itch with the urge to grab Brittany and never let go, to make everything easy and go back to a time when nothing was this damn complicated. But she tenses her muscles and locks her body in place.

But there's still that damn voice in the back of her mind, half-yelling at her that this is _now or never_ - that this is the only opportunity that she's going to have to fix things with Brittany. And even though she doesn't want to give into the vulnerable, hurt side of her – she can't let Brittany go again, she won't let Brittany walk out again. She's done it before, she's somehow managed to survive Brittany leaving – and maybe, just maybe if she tried her utmost hardest, she might be able to do it again. But she doesn't want too. The mere thought of watching Brittany walking out again makes her heart ache, it brings her back to the day Brittany left and the wrench in her throat makes her body flinch and almost keel over with the impact.

"Why did you leave?" Santana's voice is broken, it's shallow, croaky and she gulps against the sound of it.

There's unshed tears brimming behind her eyes, and her nose tingles with the restraint. She allows a tear to fall, one damn tear and it breaks her walls. The barriers broken and she knows there's no way of going back – especially after years of _not_ crying, of making sure she's never been emotionally available enough that someone could affect her like that. But now she's here, standing in front of the one person who somehow wormed her way into her heart, and routed themselves there.

Brittany turns, and pauses. Her gaze locking onto the kitchen tiles as she fiddles with the hem of her shorts. Santana can tell she's starting to cry and the urge to comfort her runs through her veins. But she can't. She won't. She doesn't want to get hurt, she _can't_ get hurt anymore. There are only so many times she can be knocked down, before she can't get back up again.

So instead, she inhales deeply and feels her facial muscles quiver as she restrains the tears. "Where did we go wrong?"

"We were fighting," Brittany brokenly whispers as she heads towards the nearest counter and hops on.

"All normal couples fight," Santana counters, feeling lame and stupid. It's strange feeling this vulnerable, like she can't protect herself even if she wanted too.

"We were never a normal couple, San. We were special."

Santana's heart sinks and her head throbs. The past tense has a larger effect on her than she thought and her breaths come out in half-pants. But it also pisses her off, and makes her head throb. She turns around, placing one hand either side of the sink and staring into the darkness through the window in front of her.

"So why the hell did you leave? If we were so god damn special?" Her emotions are totally conflicted, anger, love, hurt. Damn, she needs to get a grip. And maybe a whiskey on the rocks.

"Everything was perfect between us, and then in few months before we…"

Santana shakes her head, causing her hair to fall over her ears so she doesn't hear the _broke up_, ending Brittany's sentence, that she knows could possibly cause her to crumble into a pathetic mess.

"… We couldn't go one conversation without fighting, San," Brittany slides off the counter and Santana feels the atmosphere around her spike as the blonde nears, "We just weren't the same anymore. We weren't _us."_

Anger bubbles in her stomach, and she spins around, "So you thought leaving was the answer?"

There's a tear threatening to spill, and she dabs it away quickly, knowing Brittany would try and one touch will complete shatter her confidence. She needs to get this out. She's been thinking about this moment, this talk, with Brittany for years. And now she has the opportunity, she can't fuck it up.

"You thought us breaking up was the only option?"

Brittany purses her lips, "I didn't want to break up."

Santana's knees almost buckle, but she grips the counter behind her and steadies herself, "You leaving kind of contradicts that, Britt."

"Everything was just so messed up between us San. We were yelling at each other, and not even having make-up sex or angry sex anymore. What we had was crumbling apart and somewhere, we just lost control, of us, of everything and as much as I didn't want to leave, I felt like I had too."

Santana closes her eyes and exhales slowly, trying to process Brittany's words. "So, what? I _made_ you feel like you had to leave? I forced you to go?"

Brittany shakes her head, "No, San. When my mom called me about the opportunity in LA, I felt like it was meant to be, like it was the right time. Everything between us was going wrong, and we just needed some space. So I took it. I'd spent the majority of high school doing what other people wanted, and not doing what _I_ wanted to – and I had to do my own thing. I'd spent to long watching everyone do what they wanted too, and I never had that."

"I always let you do what you wanted too, I didn't hold you back." Santana argues, avoiding Brittany's point entirely.

The blonde moves closer, and Santana begins to lose confidence in her plan. Brittany can't be this close to her, it's too overwhelming. "I know you didn't San, I just… I wanted this opportunity, and I wanted you, but I couldn't have both so I had to choose."

Santana tries not to let the past tense affect her, and shifts back and forth on her feet. "So I wasn't good enough, is that what you're saying? I wasn't better than a damn job?"

"You see this is my point San," Brittany shrugs, "Either way I was going to lose out. I could either; not do what I want and never gain my independence, or I could leave you, break my own heart and yours, and go after my dreams. It sounds so selfish, but I had to leave."

Santana's brows come together. "So I was the easier option? Breaking my heart, was easier than not going after some stupid job?"

Brittany looks down towards Santana's hand, and before she can reach over, Santana crosses her arms. She's hurting, all she knows is that Brittany thought she was a lesser choice, and therefore she got left behind. It's not fucking fair, and right now she's trying to figure out whether or not to snap at Brittany or not. She's rehearsed it about a million times in her head, this conversation, but never once has she found herself hearing _this_ response from Brittany.

"No," Brittany reaches forward anyway, curling her fingers around Santana's wrists and tugging, "I knew you'd wait for me. That opportunity wouldn't."

A scoff escapes Santana's lip. Is she actually hearing this? "So you thought you would take advantage of me, because you know I'm powerless to ever reject you? That I don't have the will or strength to resist you because I'm still that fucking in love with you?"

Brittany turns startled eyed towards her, and after a few seconds she grins. Santana squints her eyes and lifts her upper lip slightly. What the hell is Brittany smiling at?

"Why are you smiling?"

"You said you're still in love with me."

Brown eyes widen slightly. It didn't actually go through her mind that she said that, and now as she backpedals through her words – she immediately wants to take them back. It's not like they're not true, because they are - it's just she didn't want to open herself up and be so damn vulnerable again. Telling Brittany she's still in love with her was stupid, really fucking stupid, and it does not to alleviate the pressure and hurt growing inside her chest.

"Bri-"

"No," A pale finger is pushed against her lips and she inhales sharply, "Please don't."

She wants to be angry, she wants to slap away Brittany's finger and tell her she has no right. Truth be told, she's really fucking pissed that Brittany only left because she knew Santana would always wait – who the fuck does that? Taking advantage of the fact that she can't control her own feelings? That's not a justification for leaving, Santana thought there may be some lame excuse or misunderstanding for Brittany leaving – but no. _Nada._

"I'm still in love with you." Brittany says sheepishly, eyes downcast and foot tracing imaginary circles on the floor.

The words feel like a slap to the face, and it's too much to deal with. She's spent over two years weeping over Brittany, she's spent so long trying to fix herself, and bringing back any of the good inside of her that Brittany took when she left. It feels so surreal, listening to Brittany admit her feelings, because whether she likes it or not, Santana is head over fucking heels in love with Brittany still – but her heart's guarded. There's walls she's put up and a few stupid words aren't going to break them. She won't let them.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

Brittany glances up through dark lashes. "You have to understand, I never meant to hurt you, Santana."

"No I don't. I don't have to understand." Santana's voice is angry, and she clenches her jaw as a few more tears spill over her cheeks.

"Okay, maybe you don't have to, but I want you to understand. I'm asking you too."

Santana sighs, feeling the will to argue seep out of her. It's utterly exhausting trying to convince someone you're not in love with them. Only God knows how she's been doing it for however long she's been here.

"You can't say you never meant to hurt me, because you knew that's _exactly _what you were doing when you left." She mutters, casting her eyes downward.

Brittany closes the gap between their bodies and tilts her chin up with a forefinger. "I had to go my own way."

"I could've come with you." Santana says the words so quietly she's not even sure if she's said them.

But, judging by the deep intake of breath coming from Brittany, she did. "I couldn't hold you back like that. Can't you see?"

"You wouldn't have been holding me back; I wanted to come with you Britt."

She doesn't know why she's saying this, but it just feels like she needs to explain. Her right hand is fiddling with the hem of her shirt, and whilst the other is balled up and pressed underneath her opposite arm. The rain is pelting down outside, and all Santana wants to do is get away from here. But she needs an explanation – it's been too long without one, too long with stupid ideas that she made up in her head.

"You had six months," Brittany explains, "Six months and you were graduating. I wasn't going anywhere academically, San. I probably would've had to retake all my exams and then I would've been holding _you_ back. Because you know as well as me you wouldn't have left me there alone."

It's true. Santana knows she would've stayed if Brittany had. Wherever Brittany went she did too – it was how they worked. It was what she promised. But maybe that was part of the problem?

"We had to do our own thing - without each other."

Santana wipes away the tears forming at the corner of her eyes. She feels _really_ lame right now. "Why?"

"Independence."

It's the same type of explanation Brittany said before, and it really pisses Santana off. Her head throbs and she pinches the bridge of her nose, rubbing softly, and squeezing her eyes shut. "What the hell does that mean? Independence?"

Santana can feel herself slipping away from Brittany, and it seems Brittany knows this because she closes the miniscule gap between their bodies and locks Santana into place. Her scent is like a tsunami, and it crashes down on Santana with the same amount of pressure. Her nostrils flare instantly and her lungs suck up every last ounce of it.

"It means we had to be our own people. We had to learn to live without each other."

"Why?" It comes out on a long exhale, filled with defeat.

Brittany gulps and cups Santana's cheeks. "Because we wouldn't have known how important we were to each other, otherwise. We would always take each other for granted and neither of us would be truly happy."

There's no way she spent the last two years of her life being a fucking wreck just because Brittany wanted a little more appreciation. Damn, she appreciated the shit out of her. "So that's it? You thought there was a lack of appreciation?"

"No," Brittany shakes her head, still cupping Santana's face, "We just needed to learn to live without each other, be our own people. The fights were just the beginning, San. We were arguing because we were together all the time, and in the end it only would've damaged what we had. To what we have.

Santana clenches her jaw. "We didn't have to break up to spend some time apart."

"You and I both know we wouldn't have been able to stay away from each other, knowing we still wanted and loved each other." Brittany explains matter-of-factly.

It's true, she knows they wouldn't have made it twenty four hours until they were rolling around in bed, naked bodies pressing together, limbs entangled and trading passionate kisses and sweet _I love you's_. But damn, after all this explaining – she still doesn't feel like she gets it completely. She takes a deep breath, and tries to process in her mind what she's feeling, and how Brittany's feeling, and what the hell this means for them. What does Brittany want? What does she want? Damn, and she thought the army was hard.

"So hold on, you left because you got an opportunity, we were fighting and you wanted us to become our own people so we could appreciate each other more?"

Brittany nods. "Well, yeah."

Anger flashes through Santana, and she yanks Brittany's hands away from her face, creating a small distance between them. To be honest, that explanation is pretty fucking stupid. "That's fucking ridiculous. If you wanted to appreciate each other more, when the hell did you think that would come around? You didn't have to wait two years and a job offer for that."

"I didn't," Brittany gulps and her lower lip quivers. The urge to kiss that lip burns through Santana, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to push it down.

When Brittany's words finally process in her mind, she opens her eyes and stares at the other woman incredulously. "You _didn't_ spend two years _finding yourself_, or whatever the fuck you want to call it?"

Brittany shakes her head in denial. "No, I came back after you graduated."

Santana's heart sinks, and her grip on pale wrists loosens. Her jaw is slack and every facial feature affected by her anger drops. Brittany can't have come back, she would've seen her. Every damn head of blonde hair caught her eye, and she always examined them with utmost inspection.

"You came back?" She repeats, still not believing what she's hearing.

Brittany lets out a whimper as her glossy eyes begin to leak their years. "It took me longer than it should've done, but I realised how stupid I was. Leaving you was the dumbest thing I've ever done, and that's coming from me – the one who thought a ballad was a male duck."

Santana can't help but chuckle lightly, and it surprises her when it's not as painful the last time she laughed.

"I came back to Columbia, and when I went to your dorm, someone told me you'd left. Got your degree and up and left."

Santana nods along. She knows what she's did, hell, she remembers _exactly_ what she'd done, because as soon as she'd walked across the stage, and the parchment with the results of her years of education was slapped into her palm – she'd practically sprinted to her dorm, picked up her bags and left. Within a few hours she was back in Buckland, sobbing into her aunt's arms. Which was strange, come to think of it - her aunt was never one to give comfort, or sympathy.

"I went back to Lima, and searched there because I thought maybe, you'd move back to your dad's place." Brittany explains.

Santana had thought about returning to Lima, she'd thought about moving back into her old house and see where she went from there. But the memories of her room, of that house, of that place, were just too damn painful. So instead, Santana remained in Buckland and practically buried herself into Military training to keep herself distracted.

"But then I saw Puck, and he told me you'd moved back to Buckland." Brittany continues, head dipping and hands fiddling together.

Santana doesn't even fight it this time as her hands finds Brittany's. She tangles their fingers together, and welcomes the warmth and comfort as it penetrates her chest. It's been too long without this feeling, without Brittany, and she's just too tired of trying to fight wanting Brittany anymore. A smile graces Brittany's face, and Santana feels her heart balloon inside her chest – it's a stupid reaction for such a small thing, but she knows it's _her_ causing the smile – and it feels really fucking good.

"I went there, and your aunt told me you'd been shipped to Afghanistan, and that you had no interest in seeing me ever again."

It's utterly heart-wrenching watching Brittany like this, all broken and vulnerable. But it's even worse knowing that she _had _actually told her aunt that she didn't want to see Brittany ever again. The denial lingers on the end of her tongue, but she doesn't say it, because she doesn't want to lie anymore. The bitterness and heartbreak had taken over her when she'd told her aunt about the whole Brittany fiasco, and as soon as the words _I never want to see Brittany again_, tumbled from her mouth – she knew she'd live to regret it.

Especially now as Brittany's staring at her expectantly, like she's awaiting a denial that isn't going to come.

"Did you say that?" Brittany asks, her voice quiet and weak, "That you didn't want to see me ever again?"

Santana closes her eyes and feels her knees give out. Slowly, she slides down the counter, and feels her butt hit the floor. Her knees are bent and Brittany follows, making sure their threaded fingers don't disconnect. It's stupid, because after all the hurt Brittany's caused her, there should be some revengeful part of her that's going to take joy in telling Brittany that she said that – but there isn't.

"Yeah," She breathes, bringing her fore head to rest onto one of her kneecaps, "I did."

Brittany's silent for a few seconds, and Santana lets the grip of her fingers loosen. If Brittany's going to get up and leave, she won't stop her. She doesn't have the strength too, and she knows that Brittany's left once – she'll do it again. And she'd prefer it sooner rather than later. But Brittany doesn't loosen her hold, she doesn't get up and walk away like Santana expects.

Instead, she tilts Santana's face up with a long, slender finger and looks deeply into her eyes. "Tell me now, if that's still true. And I'll let you go."

"You'd do that?" Santana breathes, feeling her heart inflate and twist at the same time.

It's always been clear that she would do anything for Brittany, including putting herself in harm's way, or breaking her own heart as long as Brittany was okay. That's the reason Santana didn't go after Brittany after she left, it's why Santana grovelled and practically keeled over into a pathetic mess – instead of trying to get Brittany back. Because she thought it was what Brittany wanted, she thought Brittany didn't want her anymore – so instead of begging for Brittany go come back, to love her again, she let her go.

Brittany nods slowly with sad blue eyes. "I'd do anything for you, San. Even if it meant hurting myself, I'd do absolutely anything for you."

They stare at each other for what feels like minutes. Santana's mind is racing. She so badly wants to let Brittany back in, she wants to be able to kiss Brittany, hug her, make love to her. She wants all these damn things, but she doesn't know if she can. There's still a fucking huge structure the size of the Berlin Wall surrounding her heart, keeping out anyone and everyone, and protecting her.

She's torn.

Her mind's telling her to keep this wall out, put up a few more Brittany barriers, tell Brittany she never wants to see her again and leave. Lead a miserable life on her own, and just take pride in what she's done throughout her life before dying the way she lived. Alone.

Or she could tell Brittany the truth. Tell her that everything she said back then was bullshit. That the minute those words escaped her mouth, she wanted to take them back. She could tell Brittany how fucking in love with her she still is, and how she yearns for her every single fucking day and how pathetically lost she's been ever since Brittany walked out.

"Please," Brittany whispers, "Please say something."

Santana's eyes fixate on the floor, and she feels a thumb brush over the back of her knuckles. She finds herself inhaling sharply at the sensation that surges through her body, and every stubborn part of her that wanted to fight her feelings crumble. It's stupid to even think she could resist Brittany, resist the soul-crushing love that she has for the woman in front of her.

And when she looks up, her heart breaks just that little bit more – but for all the wrong reasons. It's no longer for the image that flashes through her mind of Brittany walking out; it's no longer for her own pain. It's for the expression Brittany's showing on her face. The lost, broken, _please-come-back-to-me_ one, that's practically begging Santana to say those three words that will fix her heart. She knows it. Fuck, she basically invented the damn thing. And seeing it on Brittany's face… Well, it hurts.

All this time she's been wallowing in her own self-pity, going on about how much she's hurting. But never, _never,_ has she once thought about how Brittany's feeling. How sleeping together affected them, how the presence of Santana in Brittany's life or the longing looks _she_ sent Brittany's way had been affecting her.

All this time, Brittany's been hurting just as much as she has, thinking that Santana didn't want her and that she didn't want to see her again. It's more painful than she can imagine, because yeah, she has gone through hell because of Brittany – but never once did Brittany say she never wanted to see Santana gain. That would've killed her.

She knows Brittany's waiting for her to say something. But at the moment, there's no words flowing through her mind. It's a lot of information for her to take, knowing that all this time, Brittany's wanted her just as much as she's wanted Brittany. For the past two years, she's been yearning for something that she thought did want it back – when it did. For 730 days, she's been going through emotional torture, and for what? Nothing.

But what would've happened if she hadn't got the job? What would've happened if Puck hadn't offered her a job? Would Brittany just have left it? Would they forever have lived their lives without each other, despite needing each other more than air? Damn. Even after this long ass talk, things still aren't crystal clear.

They can't keep going around in circles. Santana needs to know, and instead of tip-toeing around the question, eating her up inside, she has to get a straight answer. If it's a no, then she knows her place. She'll get up, trip a little as she throws one final glance at the love of her life, and walk away. It's the right thing. For her. For Brittany. For them.

But that doesn't make it any easier.

"If Puck hadn't offered me the job," Santana gulps down the golf-sized ball in her throat, forcing back the almost uncontrollable sob. "Would we have ever met again?"

Brittany hesitates, and turns her eyes down to their threaded fingers. Panic flashes through Santana – she doesn't want to hear a _no._ It's in that moment that she wishes she could take back her words. She's not sure if the words spoken will completely break her. From the pain she sees in Brittany's eyes, the immediate conclusion she comes to is _no._ And then her body practically keels over as the throb in her chest implodes.

"I have something to tell you," Brittany says, quietly.

Santana's heart skips a beat. She doesn't need to hear any bad news, she's heard enough bad news to last her, her entire lifetime. It was never clear why so many bad things happened to her, she was never a terrible person. Sure, a little bitchy, but not enough to be put through _that_ much. That's one of the reasons why she left Brittany, because she couldn't handle any more bad news – and despite the saying _it can only go up from here_, Santana has always been pessimistic and believed that not to be true. Things can _always_ get worse, even if things seem like they can't get any worse – they can.

So that's why she's sitting in front of Brittany, trying to formulate a way to close her ears from the unknown words she's scared to hear. She's forcing herself to stay on the kitchen floor, sitting less than a metre away from the one person that ever got through those damn barriers she built around herself, the one person that ever caused all of the walls to just crumble down, as if they never existed. Because she knows if she lets herself go, and lets herself run free, her legs will be leading her in the opposite direction of Brittany, fast. She'll be running away and bursting into the darkness of Los Angeles. Not knowing where she's going, but knowing what she's leaving.

A sob erupts from within her when she realizes she doesn't know what the hell to do. She's so stupid, and such a pathetic cliché that she's sitting on pretty damn cold kitchen floor, crying from an internal conflict due to a broken heart.

"San," Brittany calls her, quietly. "San, look at me."

Santana's chest rattles as another sob escapes her. She doesn't know what Brittany's going to say, but she can see the sadness in trouble blue pools, and the breath just rasps from her. Fight swells inside of her, and she pushes up from the floor shakily, crouching to the floor until a touch burns as a pale hand catches her forearm.

"Don't," Brittany pleads, her voice weak and broken. "Please, just listen to me."

Santana sees the flicker of desperation behind Brittany's dark eyes. The ones so uncharacteristically wrong for the cheery demeanour she usually has. Or had. Before everything became so damn complicated. Grudgingly, Santana allows the heavy weights in her limbs to drag her back to the floor. Sinking her with the rest of her failing organs.

"I got Quinn to do a search on you," Brittany takes in a deep breath, "To find out where you were."

That's really not what she was expecting. "Why?"

Brittany's face screws up slightly with the tears as she gasps for breath. It pains Santana to see the blonde like this, sobbing and whimpering uncontrollably. And she clenches her hands tighter around Brittany's in reaction, as if it's going to wash away the pain. That beautiful face is being ruined by these tears. Caused by her. Damn, she hates this.

"I spent the majority of my time thinking about you, San." Brittany forces out after sucking in a large inhale of breath. "And one day, Quinn walked into the pool house to find me sobbing in a pathetic mess on the studio floor. Being famous puts me in the spotlight, most of the time, and so every day I had to fake a smile – even though inside I was breaking."

Santana's heart twinges at the image of Brittany in the studio. Even after all this time, seeing Brittany cry is just too damn hard to imagine. She shuts her eyes tightly, wishing the stupid picture away as Brittany continues to speak.

"And it all built up. Quinn didn't know anything about what I was feeling, and when she found me I just spilled everything."

Tears continue to spill over Brittany's blue eyes. Santana brings one of their intertwined hands up to wipe it away with the pad of her thumb, leaning closer and bringing their bodies closer together. "Everything?"

"About how much I missed you, how much I needed to see you again. I virtually had an emotional breakdown, and for three or something hours, Quinn just cradled me whilst I cried everything out. I couldn't handle not being around you anymore, San." Brittany chokes and pulls them together until their foreheads are pressed tightly together. Their tears mingle where their noses touch, but the intimate feel of skin on skin with the most beautiful girl she's ever known is too hard to resist.

Santana thinks back to the times where she laid in a bunk, somewhere in the Registan desert – holding a picture of her and Brittany and just trying to force out any tears, so it could alleviate some of the pressure on her chest. There's a saying that when you think of someone, somehow, with some psychological shit or something, they start to think of you. Maybe one of those dreaded nights, thousands of miles away, Brittany was doing the same as her.

"Q-Q," Brittany sniffs breathlessly. Santana wants to tell her to take deep breaths and stop talking – but she needs this explanation. She needs to hear it. "Quinn asked if I wanted to do a search on you, since she knew some people in the Secret Service that could locate you, and it didn't exactly take long for me to say yes," Brittany explains, lowly. "The next day Q was on the phone, and they found you in the desert or something. It just so happens that you were on injury leave, and she spoke to someone called Jackie or Bessie."

"Jesse. My colonel Jesse St. James."" Santana corrects, smiling lightly as Brittany continues to rub in circular motions with her thumb on their knuckles. It's sort of surreal listening to Brittany explaining the real reason why she ended up here, to hear that Brittany was behind this whole thing. In some ways, she's kind of pissed off – but in others, the hole in her heart is shrinking, and she's really damn grateful.

Brittany nods, rocking Santana's head slightly. "Yeah. Him. But the next thing I knew, my bodyguard was fired and Quinn was on the phone to Puck, who was sent to get you."

Santana sighs, and despite the burning sensation spreading through her body, telling her to run away like she has done all the other times – she slides her hands around Brittany's waist and pulls their bodies together. It's a practiced routine, because the blonde sits up slightly, and puts herself on Santana's lap, looping her pale arms around a tanned neck. She holds Brittany closer, as if it's the last thing she's ever going to do, she holds Brittany tighter, tighter than she's ever held anyone before. Because she _needs_ Brittany.

After all this time, after all the pain and suffering, it's all wound up to this moment right here. The defining moment, where she decides whether to open her heart up again, to let Brittany in and become something she swore she'd never be again. Reluctantly, she breaks the skin contact of their foreheads pressing together and instead, presses it tightly into Brittany's shoulder, inhaling the one scent that can bring her to her knees and make her feel like she's floating all at once.

"Please," Brittany gulps, and follows it with a whimper. "Please don't say I'm too late."

Santana finds her throat thickening as she nuzzles her face into the crook of Brittany's neck. Her body kind of gives out then, but there's a steady body, a clean soul, a bright, welcoming heart to catch her. It's always been that way, whenever she broke, to the point of becoming irreparable; Brittany was somehow always there to do the impossible. Brittany was there when all her walls were coming down.

But not when she needed her the most.

Santana wants to be angry. She wants to say she can't do this, get up and leave. Hurt and leave Brittany like Brittany did to her. This isn't how it's supposed to be. People who are in love each other, aren't supposed to do one lousy search and then give up. People who are in love with each other, aren't supposed to lose all hope. But wouldn't that mean she was slightly hypocritical? Wouldn't that mean that, even though she's giving Brittany all this crap, somewhere deep down inside of her, she knows _she_ left too. _She_ left, went out the damn country and into a basically, suicidal profession. When Brittany was waiting for her – even if it was out of her knowledge. She knows that in some, deep, twisted way, Brittany's suffering in the same way she is.

Santana attempts to put some distance between them, so she can try and catch her breath, or regain her usual heartbeat, but Brittany doesn't allow it. "Please, San, tell me if I'm too late."

Santana watches as Brittany practically breaks down in her arms, the syllables in her words cracking along with her voice. The blonde starts to cob uncontrollably, and Santana can't bring herself to look into the broken, blue eyes that are willing to let her go if it's what she believes is the best. Shaky hands cup her cheeks, and she allows them to lift her head until she's staring up into those beautiful eyes, even if they are clouded with dark sadness.

"I miss you," Brittany breathes in what seems like a final attempt to break down Santana's walls, "So much. It hurts whenever I'm around you, because I know what I've done to you. I can't ever forgive myself for it, and I don't think you can either – but I need to try. I need to know."

That's the moment where she has a jolt of clarity. Everything blurs around her, but the trapped pressure which she's come to know as the walls around her heart, come undone. She can see the pain, the regret, the suffering and hurt flickering behind Brittany's eyes, and it alleviates the pressure on her chest. As a slow exhale escapes her lips, it's like the lock and chain follow it, because she chokes up and finds herself nodding slowly, as words don't seem like a possibility.

It's been a long time coming. Quinn saw it. Rachel saw it. Damn, even Puck saw it. And she's pretty sure she's known ever since she accepted the job, that it would come to this. It would come to the ultimate showdown of their relationship, of their feelings and broken hearts. But she knows, someday in the future, she'll be lying on a sofa with Brittany, cuddling up and looking deeply into each other's eyes with full hearts and eternal love. She knows someday she'll forget the tears they shed, the days she spent crumbling over this beautiful and just indulge herself in the feeling that poets write about, and novelists deem to be true love. One day, she'll have that with Brittany.

And right now, she doesn't know why she's ever tried to fight it.

"No." Santana cracks out, swallowing against a thickened throat. She brings shaky hands up to Brittany's face, and cradles her soft cheeks between them, rubbing away the tears and looking into eyes filled with tears. "You're not too late."

Brittany squeezes her eyes shut, and more tears continue to flow out from beneath her eyelids. Santana grips harder and without a second thought, leans in a presses a soft, lingering kiss to Brittany's lips. The blonde draws herself away, fluttering her eyes open as she exhales deeply. There's resolution and a flicker of hope behind her beautiful face, and Santana finds the corners of her mouth twitching up into a small smile. But her lips are still quivering with the threat of tears as she clings to whatever words are going to escape Brittany's perfect mouth.

"I love you."

Santana's heart practically explodes then. Everything she's spent so long building to protect herself, just fades away into nothing, and the elation of welcoming Brittany back into her heart hits her like a train on a track. There's fear sparking inside of her, but she takes it to be hopeful fear. It doesn't make much sense, but all she knows is there's something she should be looking forward too. The way Brittany's staring at her, the way her lips still taste the same and the way the aura around them feelings like new beginnings and refreshed hope – it's almost too much to contain. Especially as the three words Santana's been longing to hear, floats around inside her brain and makes her stomach flip and heart flutter.

Santana bites her lip and smiles through the salty tear tracks staining her cheeks. "I love you too."

Everything is silent around them. All that she can hear is their ragged breathing, the feeling of broken hearts slowly healing and the atmosphere sparking with the feeling of their renewed love. It's perfect. It feels like everything bad is behind them, being washed away and sinking down the drain as a brand new start clicks into place. The empty space that's been spreading throughout her chest for the past two years, suddenly feels whole. Like now she's got everything she's ever going to need.

But right on cue, something has to break their moment.

"SANTANA!"

The voice is shrill, panicked and frantic. Santana's eyes widen as she stares up at Brittany, who's still straddling her thighs, sparing down at her with a similar expression. Panic flashes through her, and both of them immediately shoot up in sync, automatically lacing their fingers together as Santana tugs Brittany towards the kitchen entrance, leading to the foyer.

"SANTANA!"

It's Rachel. Except she was pretty sure the first voice was Quinn. Her head whips around, snapping back and forth through the darkness of the foyer as she looks for the source of the shriek. Quinn and Rachel come racing down the stairs, both their faces pale and eyes wide as they try to put one foot in front of the other and trying not to tumble.

As they get closer, Santana realises they're holding hands, and their hair is tangled and knotted. A smirk comes to her face, and she looks at Brittany, who's standing slightly behind her glaring up the stairs.

"SANTANA!" Rachel screams as she practically throws herself down the remaining steps.

Brittany releases their tangled fingers to catch the small brunette, and Santana does the same as Quinn falls into her arms, sobbing heavily.

"What?" Santana says, frantically. "What's going on?"

Quinn stares up with a terrified expression. "H-he," Quinn's words are interrupted with a heavy sob, "H-he's in t-the h-house. H-he's in h-her be-bedroom."

Everything about the last few minutes of rekindled love and joy fades away as the words process through her mind. The psycho. The guy trying to get to Brittany is in the house. _Again._ In Brittany's room. Where Brittany _should _be right now. Where Brittany _would _be if Santana had let her walk out the kitchen.

Her heart starts to beat a mile a minute, and her eyes snap towards Brittany who's now trembling with fear. They stare at each other for a long, intense moment – and she quickly releases a quivering Quinn, mouths a quick _I love you_ to Brittany and then sprints up the stairs, taking two at a time.

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><p><strong>I'm so sorry it took so long, but I hope you enjoyed it!<strong>

**Please if you have time, tell me your thoughts! Thank you!**


	12. chapter eleven

**Thank you guys so much for all your reviews on the last chapter! I had no idea that it had so many followers! Sorry about how long it took to update, if I had known I would've updated it earlier!**

**Shameless self-promotion! Please check out my fic dedicated tumblr, it's _justsomebrittanagleek_ [.] tumblr [.] com! It's specifically for any questions regarding my fics, and I'm posting spoilers/teasers and expected update times for my ongoing fics!**

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**Hope you enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Unfortunately, I don't own anything to do with Glee. Sucks to be me.

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><p><strong>The Bodyguard:<br>Chapter Eleven**

_She quickly releases a quivering Quinn, mouths a quick 'I love you' to Brittany and then sprints up the stairs, taking two at a time._

It's stupid; Santana's pretty much done this crappy-cop-show routine about three times more than she should have, and yet, here she is, doing it again. Her back's against the wall, adrenaline pumping through her veins and hands clasped around her gun.

Except this time she has no wish to catch this guy and get it over and done with as quick as possible – because now there's been a development with her and Brittany, and truthfully, she wants to stick around and see what the hell is going on.

Their relationship is still sticky, still up in the air and still confusing as shit. Sure, they said _I love you_ to each other before they were rudely interrupted. Sure, she'd allowed her walls to crumble and let Brittany back in. And even, sure, they kissed again, like _properly_ kissed – not make out like teenagers do in the back of the van and all their aware of is their hyped up hormones - like make-your-heart-ache-I-love-you kiss. One that showed the renewal of their relationship, one that showed the hope for what's to come, but one that also put Santana in a unknowing situation.

Where the hell are they? What does the talk mean now? Are they back together? Damn, even after an hour of sobbing, explanations and heartache, it's still fucked up.

Back to the current situation. Damn, she's got to stop zoning out. She's checked Brittany's bedroom, but it doesn't surprise her that his location has been vacated. If she were him, she wouldn't stay in the same place he'd just been found.

"Stop playing your stupid games." Santana says into the blackness of the hallway. "Just stop fucking around and tell me what you want."

Nearly a millisecond later, she hears another voice. "You know _exactly _what I want."

There's this moment, fast and fleeting, when everything stops for a second. She's standing, gun armed and raised, awaiting someone to step out into the darkness and reveal themselves. It's like she's waiting for the final showdown. But something doesn't seem right about the situation. It's too easy. This guy obviously knows the house, obviously knows Santana's movement, and therefore knows exactly what she's doing i.e. the gun armed and adrenaline pumping.

Twice, she's chased this guy around, forcing her legs harder and harder to chase after him as the wind whips her hair around. Twice, she's lost this guy who's ridiculously quick on his feet. And twice, she's grown more hatred for a man threatening the one person that gives her reason for existing.

But then that moment's gone.

"What do you want from her?" Santana demands, edging her way down the dark hallway. "What has she done to you?"

The idea to flick the light switch does pass through Santana's mind, so she can see more than what the moon is highlighting, but she doesn't know where it is, and one second with putting her attention somewhere else, is one second more than this guy can get ahead of her. Well, further than he already is.

"She's always had it so easy." A voice from the unknown says. Santana cranes her ear, trying to recognise the tone. "She's always had it so damn easy, and she doesn't know what she's doing with what she has. She doesn't deserve it."

Halfway down the hall, Santana pauses. It doesn't click until the voice stops, that she notices the robotic edge to it. Like he's using a voice changer. What does he have to hide?

"Why are you hiding?" Santana steps towards the curtain and lifts it with the edge of her gun, seeing if he's there. "What's with the voice changer? Scared I'll recognise you?"

A robotic laugh echoes through the dark corridor. "Well done, Santana."

"So I do know you?"

There's a pause, and Santana smirks as she knows she's received a little more information that she was supposed to. Her breathing is intense, and coming out as pants as her feet make their way carefully along the hardwood floor. Just as she reaches the end of the hallway, she drops the gun by her side and spins, in time to see a figure facing her at the far end, mostly hidden in the shadows and perched on the edge of the open window.

How the hell did he even get there? He must've like turned invisible or something. None of the rooms lead to each other, and she checked each of them…

"You know enough." The figure says, reaching up to steady himself on the top of the frame. "You can't protect her forever, Lopez."

And with those words he's out the window. She sprints up to it, arming her gun in case she needs to shoot, but when she reaches it, her eyes search the darkened garden and find nothing. Damn, he's really fast.

"Santana."

She spins around, and instinctively thrusts the butt of her gun into the person's head, standing inches away from her. A crash echoes as the figure slumps to the floor, grasping their head and muttering things under their breath.

"Damn, what the hell was that for?"

It's Puck.

"Puck?" Santana questions, holstering the gun and kneeling down to his height. "Don't sneak up on a girl like that."

Puck grins, and then studies his hand as he pulls it away from himself. "You made me bleed."

"You scared me." Santana reasons, shrugging as she stands and offers out her hand.

Even in the darkness, she can see the smirk on Puck's face as he reaches with his free hand and hooks his thumb around hers. She hauls him up, and just as he gets up, he stumbles into her, pushing her towards the open window. Panic flashes through her, and she reaches tighter onto him, knowing if she's going – he sure as hell is too.

"Clumsy ass," Santana mutters as she grips his bicep and pushes back, "Nearly pushed me out the damn window."

Puck's whole body jerks away from her as her fingers curl, and her brows furrow in confusion because of it. Suspicion narrows her eyes, and there's a few seconds where she studies his body movements. Despite knowing there's no reason to be suspicious about him, because well, it's Puck, a brother figure to her, she can't help but feel so.

"What was that?"

Puck shifts uncomfortably. "What was what?"

There's no time to answer Puck's question because Sam, Karofsky and Blaine appear at the top of the stairs, all holding their guns out. It's pretty amusing seeing them like this, like they're the damn A Team or something. Sam's the first to see them, and he holsters his gun before coming up beside Santana with worry sketched all over his face.

"What happened?" Sam asks, his eyes darting from her to Puck.

Santana gives Puck a quick glance, who just shrugs in response and she knows she'll be taking this one. "That freak was in Britt's room."

Karofsky sidles up, gun raised and head whipping around frantically. "Did you catch him?"

"Does it look like we did?" Santana snaps, eyes locked onto his. "And put your damn gun down, Steven Seagal."

A chortle comes from the top of the stairs and Santana peers over Karofsky's shoulder to see Blaine chuckling quietly in the back. Her eyes flicker back to Karofsky, and she smirks at the unamused expression on his face. He mumbles something, but she just waves him off and barges past him to the top of the stairs, where she looks down and sees Quinn, Brittany and Rachel huddled near the door.

A wave of relief washes over her, and just with the sight of Brittany in front of her she calms down. Brittany smiles at her from the bottom of the stairs, but there's something uncertain about that smile – and she knows it's for the same reason she's feeling uncertain.

"Did he say anything?"

Santana turns around and sees Sam staring at her expectantly. Puck's leaning on the wall opposite the top of the stairs, and Karofsky's still peering out the window, like he's going to spot something that Santana hasn't. She knows he'd just _love_ to do that.

"Just that I know enough or some shit, and that I can't protect Britt forever." Her eyes immediately drift down the stairs to Brittany who's muttering something soothing to Quinn as she brushes back a piece of hair.

"That's it?" Sam continues, pulling at the lapels of his jacket in frustration. "That's all he said?"

Santana nods. "Yeah, he let it slip that I might know who he is though."

The itch is back. The one from the second chase. But this time as she lets herself relax, and hopes it'll take over, it does nothing but irritate her. It's like there's something there, right in front of her and she can't see it. She can't fucking see it – but this fucking itch can and it's mocking her. Seriously, what is with that?

Karofsky shuffles back over, his hand twitching as it's still holding the gun. Santana rolls her eyes, knowing that he likes the look of himself with a stupid weapon, but she could still take him down with her bare hands. Not that she's modest or anything.

"We know him?" Blaine tilts his head curiously. "So he could be someone in this compound?"

"He said I would recognise his voice."

Sam steps in, switched into an alpha male mode. "Recognise his voice?"

"Yeah," Santana nods. "He was using a voice changer, or something that altered his natural voice. He's scared I'll know him."

"Like Scream?" Puck cuts in, crossing one ankle over the other.

Karofsky raises an eyebrow, and Santana purses her lips, searching for recognition of his question. "Scream?"

"The movie," Puck pushes off the wall, arms still crossed and looking like he's about to delve into an old mythical tale about werewolves and vampires. "Ghost-faced killer disguises his voice, by using a voice changer to make him sound completely different from his original voice, so that Sydney, the main chick, won't recognise him. In the second one, a woman uses the changer, and makes herself sound like a guy – so for all you know, this psycho could actually be a chick."

Santana looks down at the floor, going through Puck's words in her mind. "What are you trying to say, Puckerman?"

"I'm saying," Puck steps even closer, stretching one arm out to support him as he grasps the banister along the rim of the stairs, "This guy, or girl, knows his shit."

"That's pretty fucking obvious since he's been running around this house like he knows it."

Puck drops his hands by his sides, and tries to hide the way he clenches his fist. But Santana sees it, she always does. "Just trying to help, Lopez." He growls, curling his upper lip slightly.

Santana blinks. "Well _don't._"

He takes a challenging step toward her with flared nostrils and narrowed eyes. It's never struck her until now that he could potentially be quite a scary guy. And if it wasn't for their past, she'd possibly doubt him. But she _does_ know him, he wouldn't hurt a damn fly – not as long as she said not too.

"Guys, quit it." Blaine stands between them, quirking an eyebrow and raising both hands to hover of their chests. "What the hell is wrong with you two?"

It's moments like these that Santana wishes she could give in to the irrational urge to kick the crap out of someone, preferably Puck, just so she could get all the pent up anger out. But she can't. She won't. Especially not with Brittany staring up at her from the bottom of the stairs… With Artie.

"When did _he_ get there?" Santana asks roughly, eyes locked on the skinny dancer.

Blaine drops his hands and Puck shuffles away, fists still clenched to stand with Sam. "About a minute ago. I swear sometimes that guy just pops out of nowhere. He's freakishly stealthy."

Santana tilts her head to the side, "Oh, really?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she replays all the images and clips she has of the psycho running away from her. It fits. Everything about Artie just screams psycho. He has a motive, he's fast, and he knows the layout of the house. But, ah yes, there's a but, there's something that just _doesn't_ click with him. Brittany likes him, Brittany _trusts_ him, and so as far as Santana's concerned, she has no reason to suspect him.

"Yeah," Blaine answers, "Freakishly fast too."

Jaw clenching, Santana flashes Blaine a small smile and descends down the stairs. Artie's staring at her when she sidles up beside him, standing opposite the two blondes. Brittany immediately smiles, and Santana watches her shoulders deflate, like she doesn't have to be tense now Santana's here. It's not a big gesture, damn, it's hardly a gesture, but it creates a tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach, knowing that Brittany _wants_ and _needs_ her to be there, and suddenly the reason for being here completely drains out her mind as it's replaced by a little grin.

"Did he s-say a-anything?"

And then it's back.

"Not really." Santana looks down to Quinn, who asked the question. She's not sure why she's lying, well, more like withholding information. Maybe it's because Quinn's looking up at her with a pale face and terrified hazel eyes. Maybe it's because Artie's smirking at her from her left, which he probably thinks she can't see – or maybe, just maybe it's because Brittany's staring at her with such adoration in the ocean pools she calls her eyes that Santana completely forgets what the psycho said. "Not anything of importance anyway."

Her eyes land on Brittany, who's staring back at her. "Are you alright, San?"

"Yeah," Santana nods, "I'm good."

She knows Brittany's staring at her, and she so badly wants to look up and lock eyes with her. But she's still hesitant about them she's still worrying and scared. She's still the same person she was an hour ago, only now she's on the edge, wondering if she's going to fall or fly.

But then Brittany mouths _I love you_ and Santana smiles.

Fly. She's _definitely_ going to fly.

* * *

><p>"We need to protect her."<p>

Santana slams down her palms on the kitchen island countertop, where Karofsky, Blaine and Quinn are all standing. It's been fifteen minutes, and a security check around the perimeter of the residence since the psycho made an appearance. Brittany, Sam, Kurt and Rachel went off to the living room, after Blaine said he was too worried about someone else getting hurt, and needed Kurt to be safe too. They're off in the living room, about four metres away from the kitchen, lounging on the sofa and trying to relax.

"And how do you suggest that, Santana?" Quinn asks, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes through secretary glasses. "He's already got into the house, three times."

It's true. It's fucking true which only means Santana's failed at her job so far. "I fucking know that, Q." Santana snaps.

"Well maybe she should go away then."

Santana whips her head up and glares at Karofsky. "What?"

"Maybe," Karofsky starts again, pushing off the counter he's leaning on and rests both palms on top of the kitchen island, mirroring Santana's stance. "She should get away for a bit. That way, he won't be able to get at her."

Whether she likes it or not, it's a pretty good idea. She doesn't know why she didn't think of it in the first place; after all, since she's been here it's only been bad news for Brittany. Things have only started getting worse, and something tells her it's only just beginning.

"She has a place up in Alaska." Blaine steps in, joining his palms to the counter. "A cabin. She could go there for a bit. No-one out of the Pierce residence knows about it."

It seems like a good idea, but she still has her doubts. "I don't know…"

"Well, if you and I stay here," Karofsky cuts in, "And when he comes back there's no real reason why you can't go all James Bond on his ass. And there's two of us, which ensures he won't get away."

Quinn snorts. "You two?" Her fingers point between them. "In this house?" Then to the floor. "Alone?"

Her eyes flicker to Karofsky who nods approvingly, so she turns back to the hazel eyed blonde. "Yeah," She says slowly.

Blaine and Quinn look wary, but Quinn's the one to speak. "You two will _kill_ each other."

"Then I'll stay too." Blaine interrupts. "I'll keep them from killing each other."

"But I'm her bodyguard." Santana objects, crooking an eyebrow and looking at Quinn. "I should be with her to protect her, _personally._"

"What? Because you've been doing _such_ a good job already." Puck adds, smirking whilst his right hands toys with the strap of his belt.

Red flashes across Santana's eyes, her fists clench in reaction and she can feel her skin rejecting the bone pressing hard against it. A deep breath, and hard bite on her tongue, she regains her composure and supresses the urge to throttle Puck.

"When will you leave?"

"As soon as possible." Quinn replies, taking her Blackberry out and punching the buttons a few times. "Kurt can take us to LAX, and I can book a few tickets."

Santana whips around. "No, it's too public. Too obvious."

"Well driving would take too long. At least a few days, and I don't really think Brittany wants to be cramped up in a car." Karofsky announces, buffing out his chest and crossing his arms firmly.

He's right. Damn it. He is right. Brittany always hated car journeys, even the shortest of ones. If it was her choice, she'd run or walk everywhere – she likes nature and all that kind of crap. Santana never got that.

"He has a point, Lopez." Puck stands in, swatting Karofsky's hand out the way as he leans against the kitchen island. "We can't drive."

Her eyes search the kitchen like the solution is going to be casually lying on top of one of the counter tops. She brings her hands up, ribbing her knuckles into her eyes to try and dull the frustrating ache behind them. Quinn's staring at her expectantly. Puck's toying with the hem on his blazer. Blaine's peering into the living room, over Santana's shoulder and Karofsky… Well Karofsky's just being his usual lard-ass self, indulging in whatever food is in his reach.

And then it clicks.

"She has a helicopter." Santana moves across the kitchen, reaching to the fridge where a picture of a helicopter, with a family of blondes standing in front of it. "Her parents had a share in one, back in college."

Quinn steps forward. "So? Doesn't mean they do now."

"I bought it," Santana whips her head to the right, where Brittany's standing in the centre of the doorframe, fingers plucking at the hem of her tank top and biting on her bottom lip. "It's in the hangar in the airport."

"Are you sure?"

Brittany nods sheepishly. "Yeah, I use it to go and see my sister sometimes. Kurt can fly it."

Santana hears the sharp intake of breath behind her, apparently someone didn't know that. In her peripheral vision, she searches for the person who did it, but after a few seconds decides she doesn't care all that much and turns her attention back to Brittany.

"That decides it then," Santana breathes shakily. She _really_ doesn't want to leave Brittany and it's pretty much showing through her quivering hands and shortness of breath. "You guys will leave tonight."

"How long will we be gone?" Brittany whispers from the doorway, where Rachel, Sam and Kurt have now joined. Sam standing the furthest behind, and Kurt and Rachel with their arms looped around Brittany's waist.

Quinn looks to Karofsky, who looks to Blaine, who looks at Puck. All of them have the same unknowing expression on their face. It's not surprising for Karofsky, Blaine and Puck… But Quinn… Quinn usually has all the answers, but now she's speechless and fidgeting nervously with her fingers.

Santana pauses, cocking her head to the side as she studies each of their faces. Quinn's, Puck's, Rachel's, Sam's… All of them have a similar darkness to their eyes, and paleness to their skin. Hell, even Karofsky does. And when the reason behind the contrasting shades hits Santana, she has to force herself not to gasp, because it sure as hell isn't what she expected.

They're scared. For themselves. For Brittany. For each other. Every single one of them is fucking terrified, and up until now Santana hasn't really taken any notice of it.

"For as long as it takes," Santana lets out, casting her eyes towards Brittany. "To kill him."

Brittany's face twitches, and Santana knows that to be the inward flinch. Violence is always something that Brittany hated. She hated any type of it, whether it's verbal, physical or mental, and now she was being presented with it first hand, on a freakin' silver platter with no other option. Santana hates that she's putting Brittany in this position. Telling her that to end everything, to end the fear that affects Brittany every damn day and scares her to her very core – Santana's going to have to eliminate a life. To kill someone.

"It's sorted then." Quinn announces as Rachel walks up beside her, threading their fingers together. "We leave tonight."

Reluctantly, Santana agrees, making sure not to see the look on Brittany's face that will crumble all of her will power. "You leave tonight."

* * *

><p>It's 1am, and Santana's standing by the car with Sam.<p>

"Take care of her, please."

Sam looks up and nods. "I will, San." He pats her on the shoulder and says, "I'll protect her" as he walks away.

Santana gulps, and feels the atmosphere warm around her, despite it being a cold night. She spares a glance over her shoulder, and no doubt, Brittany's walking down the stairs in a dark brown bomber jacket, zipped up with a scarf wrapped around her neck and hiding her chin. She's wearing a casual pair of skinny jeans and calf length cowboy boots. It's really _not_ the time to be thinking about this, but damn, Brittany can make such a simple outfit look _really_ fucking sexy.

Her face falters as blue eyes look over at her way. They lock in a visual trance, and Santana feels her stomach sink as she knows she has no idea how long it'll be until she sees Brittany again, or how the hell she's supposed to prepare herself for the goodbye. Fuck, it's such a cliché.

"Santana!"

She turns around, and Quinn's standing behind her, hands in pockets of a black puffer jacket that makes her look like a dark version of the Michelin Man, and breaths clouding in front of her face.

"Yeah?"

Quinn offers a small smile. "We'll keep her safe. Stop worrying."

Santana inhales deeply, slowly closing her eyes as she tries to find the right words to say. It's all still up in the air between them, and right now she's not entirely sure what the hell is going on, but she does know that she doesn't want to spend more than five minutes away from her – not now that there is _something_ that's alive between them once more.

"I'm not worrying… I just-"

"You don't want to be without her," Quinn interjects, nodding sympathetically, "Again."

Santana slumps back against the SUV to her right, the back of her head rolling against the cold metal. "She needs to be safe, and this way she will be."

Quinn looks up the stairs, to where Brittany and Rachel are talking. Rachel's wearing a hideous sweater with what seems like a reindeer on the front, despite it not _actually_ being Christmas. But apparently, since Alaska is snowy, it's basically the same thing.

"She loves you, you know." Quinn says quietly, joining Santana in leaning against the car.

"I know." The words come out in a long exhale, along with a cloud as her hot breath mixes with the crisp air. "I love her too."

"Then be with her."

Santana lets out a deep breath she didn't know she was holding. "It's not the right time. Timing's off, Q."

"And when is going to be the right time, Santana?"

The tone of her voice catches Santana's attention, and she pauses, turns and sees the annoyed look on the blonde's face. She gulps, and bites her bottom lip before preparing herself for what she knows is going to be a pissed off Quinn. "What?"

"You love her. She loves you." Quinn starts, pushing off the van and standing in front of Santana with her arms crossed and brows furrowed in annoyance. "There's always something keeping you from being with her. Either Artie-"

Santana gives her a pointed look, but Quinn continues, stopping the denial on the tip of Santana's tongue. "Yeah, I can see that hatred from a mile away. Or this psycho's stopping you, or her going away for a while is stopping you. There's always _something_ stopping you. And I think it's bullshit."

"You don't know shit, Fabray." Santana hisses, noting the aggressiveness in her tone. It's not because Quinn's talking crap, because she isn't. In fact, Santana's pissed because Quinn is pretty much hitting the nail on the head, and the worst thing about it, is that she knows just how right Quinn is. And to say it's touching a nerve would be putting it mildly.

"I know more than you think I do, Lopez." Quinn retorts, taking a challenging step forward. "I think you're just fucking scared. You're scared because she broke your heart once, and you're scared she's going to do it again."

Santana feels her heart plummet and twitch in pain. Time doesn't heal all wounds, and despite the feeling of reconciliation between her and Brittany – there's still things lingering between them that hurt. There's still the image in Santana's mind of her leaving, there's still the memories of the months of torture she went through after the blonde left.

"Well wake up, Santana." Quinn snaps with fiery hazel eyes. "She's just as broken as you are, so stop with the self-pity shit. You're both beyond the point of being fixed, unless you're together. You're like some fucked up antidote for each other, and without it, _both_ of you two will continue to live half lives."

She looks up at Quinn and tries not to think about the image of Brittany hurting in her mind, and the way it tugs at her heartstrings and makes her want to down a bottle of vodka. But she can't stop it, and it's invading her mind, returning the sinking feeling in her gut instantly.

"So," Quinn says carefully. "What are you going to do?"

Santana feels the lump in her throat and swallows against it. She knows the answer, it's on the tip of her tongue, but it feels like she's letting herself drown if she says them. It's like she's fully revealing herself, becoming vulnerable and allowing anything to affect her.

"I love her." Are the only words that comes out her mouth.

Quinn turns, spotting Rachel who grins down at her from the top of the stairs and moves away. But not before pausing on the second step and looking back down at Santana. "Then I guess you know what to do."

* * *

><p>Quinn's words burn, and she stays leaning against the SUV for longer than she probably should. One hand is tucked underneath her arm, and the other is up by her mouth, covering the nervous lip-biting. She has no will to move, even though everyone's rushing around her, carrying suitcases, chatting on phones and doing whatever else they need to. Her eyes are staring into space, and her mind is running a mile a minute. She knows Quinn's right. It's just… Damn, even her mind can't come up with an excuse.<p>

"We leave in five," Karofsky says as he brushes past Santana with two large suitcases, weaving around the bodies and towards the back of the car.

Santana shakes her head, coming out of her reverie as her eyes land on Brittany who's sitting on one of the short columns either side of the stairs. Her bare hands are pressed into the stone either side of her, and her legs are swinging back and forth nervously. She's only got five minutes to talk to Brittany before she leaves. Five minutes and then an unknown amount of time before she's going her again.

It's now or never.

Again.

"Hey," She says quietly as she approaches Brittany.

Brittany bites on her bottom lip as she slowly raises her head. "Hi."

"Aren't your hands cold?"

Brittany looks down to her hands which are tinging pink from the cold. "Oh. Yeah. I must've left my gloves inside."

Santana smiles and then slips her hands out her pockets. She doesn't have any gloves on, but for the last ten minutes her hands have been inside her jacket pockets, which mean they're toasty and warm. She extends them both, leaving them to hover over Brittany's before glancing up hesitantly. "Do you mind?"

"No." Brittany answers quickly, a smile tugging at her lips. "I don't mind."

Both hands reach forward, curling around Brittany's wrist and tugging them up until cream and caramel hands are hovering between their bodies. She slides her hands down, tracing over soft skin until she reaches long, slender fingers. It'll only take one movement to thread their fingers together, one move to show Brittany how she's feeling. But she doesn't.

"There." Santana says, cupping Brittany's hands between her own. "All warm."

A flash of disappointment crosses behind blue eyes. "Thank you."

A silence invades their conversation, and Santana restrains the urge to tap her foot. There's a fluttering inside her stomach, and a burning sensation in her palms which she knows isn't from the mix of hot and cold skin. It's all Brittany. It's _always_ been Brittany.

"Have you got everything packed?" Santana asks, breaking the silence.

Blue eyes flicker up. "I guess so. Rachel did most of it though. She said I was packing wrong."

Santana chuckles, and brings their hands up to blow her hot breath onto them, since they don't seem to be warming up. When she glances up, she realises how close their faces are, and despite the moment of hesitation, neither of them seem to want to move away. "Sounds like Berry to me."

"Yeah," Brittany breathes, her breath blanketing Santana's cheeks. "Same old Rachel."

They stay there, staring into each other's eyes and searching for unspoken answers and supressed questions. Everything is moving around them, people racing past each other, bags being thrown about her and there, words being exchanged and conversations being cut off – but somehow, all that stuff is just a blur. It's just them. Santana and Brittany. The way it should be.

"I don't want to go without you." It's Brittany to break the silence.

Santana inhales deeply, her heart beat quickening. "I don't want to leave you." She whispers, eyes downcast.

One of the hands between her own is removed, and it comes to tilt her chin up. "Then why are you?"

"Because I need to get this guy," Santana explains, brown flickering between blue. "I don't know what I'd do if he hurt you."

"Neither do I." Brittany replies, quietly. Her eyes saying words that she can't. "If he hurts you, San-"

Santana cuts her off. "He won't. Blaine and I have a plan. We'll be fine."

"How can you be sure? How do you know he won't…" Brittany squeezes her eyes shut, and brings the other hand up to cup Santana's face. "Kill you."

Santana leans forward, and rests her forehead against Brittany's. It's such an intimate gesture, and she knows it should feel weird because of the unspoken words and uncertain status, but it doesn't. It feels right, like it's how it supposed to be. Then again, it's kind of ridiculous for her to be thinking that it should feel wrong.

"Because now I have something to live for."

She hears the sharp intake of breath coming from Brittany, and smiles. Without another second's hesitation, she dips her head, catching Brittany's lips between her own and kisses her gently. It doesn't matter that they're surrounded by people, or that there's a psycho out there trying to get Brittany, even though it's seriously pissing Santana off that he's taking this moment away from her with his fucked up mind. It doesn't matter that there's more pressing issues, because right now, with Brittany's thighs beneath her palms, and her bottom lip between Brittany's – everything is just so damn perfect.

Santana pulls away, making sure it's quick yet meaningful and tries to step back, but the hands on her face stop her, pulling their foreheads back together. Her eyes search Brittany's, and she tries to convey what she's feeling through her own, pleading and hoping that the other girl can see it. And of course, Brittany does, the way only Brittany could ever see it.

"Please, don't take too long." Brittany whispers, snaking one hand to cup Santana's neck. "Please."

The words send a flush over Santana's body. She gulps, and nods, moving the other woman's head with her own as the realization hits her. Brittany wants her. Brittany _loves_ her. _Still_. After all these years, and after everything that's transpired between them, the feelings she has for Brittany are returned.

"Okay," Santana whispers, licking her lips and inhaling the sweet scent she's sorely missed. "I won't."

She steps closer, and manoeuvres her way between Brittany's legs until the front of her thighs are pressing against the cold stone of the column. Brittany's hand slides through her hair, gripping tightly as she brings their mouths together again. Their lips slide against each other once more and Santana just relishes in the familiarity of it. The way Brittany still tastes like she did two and a half years ago, the way their hands manage to find the correct positions on each other's body and just how perfect they are not only mentally, but physically too.

A tongue grazes her bottom lip, and she lets out a throaty moan as her hands trail a path up strong thighs to the slither of skin showing between Brittany's jeans and jacket. It's different than before, when they last touched because they're no anger, jealous or repressed feelings transpiring between their kisses. There's only the reconciliation of two broken hearts, piecing themselves together until they're whole again.

It makes sense that when Brittany left, a piece of Santana went with her. It makes sense that without Brittany she's felt incomplete. It all makes sense, because they're soulmates. They always have been, and always will be. Santana read it in a book once, that folklore claims that when a soul descends to earth, it splits in two. Each half of the soul inhabits separate bodies, and these two people are forever soulmates, and will never be complete until they find one another. At the time, Santana never believed all that mythological crap. But now, with her lips gliding against Brittany's, and her heart slowly stitching itself up again, she knows it's true – because those things are only happening because she's with Brittany.

Santana breaks the kiss, breathing in gulps of air unevenly as she tries to return her heartbeat to its usual rhythm. She feels like everything's better, that there is hope for her and Brittany. Two years ago, if someone had told her that she'd be here, breathing in the same air as Brittany and tasting the remnants of her on her own lips, she would've probably punched them and curled up in the corner to cry over the picture of a her and Brittany. But no. It's real. With the fine hairs of her neck being twisted gently between Brittany's fingers, and staring deeply into sapphire eyes, it's more real than it's ever been.

"Don't you dare take too long," Brittany says again, fluttering her eyes shut as a single tear trails down her cheek. "Please."

"I won't," Santana promises, raising one hand to wipe away the lone tear with the pad of her thumb and searching blue eyes. "I'll get him and then I'll come for you."

Brittany nods shakily, and squeezes her eyes shut as the tear continue to seep out. Santana wraps her arms around the blonde's waist, pulling their bodies together, as the thighs either side of her body clamp together to keep her there. In some ways, it feels like a brand new start to them. But in others, it feels like this is a goodbye. And Santana fucking hates that.

"I don't want this," Brittany whispers into Santana's collarbone, "I don't want to be away from you."

Santana pulls back, cupping Brittany's cheeks between her palms and locking gazes. "I have to do this." She explains. "I have to do this, to keep you safe."

The plan's been set. Brittany, Sam, Puck, Quinn, Rachel and Kurt are all going north to Alaska via helicopter, whilst she, Blaine and Karofsky stay here. It's subtle, so there won't be any unwanted publicity or paparazzi to deal with due to Puck's bargaining with a few of the employee's, and they'll get there in a few hours. Santana doesn't know the location of the cabin exactly, but when she gets this fucking psycho, she'll text Quinn, get the address and follow them there. She doesn't want to run the risk of someone knowing where she is, since this guy has been tracking their every movement so far. When it's all over, everything will be fine and then she'll be free to leave the Pierce residence, and return back to Lima, or… Well, she'll have to think about it when the time comes.

"Okay." Brittany breathes before she leans in and kisses Santana again.

It's lingering, slow and easy, everything Santana wants and needs it to be. She needs Brittany to be her antidote, her calming pill, because otherwise she'll dive head first into hurting this guy, into getting her revenge for all the worry, pain and fear he's caused – and she knows that'll just get her hurt. But Brittany's here. Brittany's here, moulding her lips around Santana's and disappaiting all the negative, angry emotions out of her like they were never there.

"Britt! Time to go!"

Santana turns her head, breaking the contact as Brittany's forehead leans against her temple, panting heavily against her jaw. Quinn's smiling and nodding at them approvingly, clearing missing that she just interrupted a very intense moment. It's time for Brittany to go, and there's nothing inside of Santana that wants it to happen. With Brittany's fingers threading through hers, and her heart beating ten thousand miles a minute, the last thing she wants is to be separated from Brittany.

"You have to go." Santana says gently, turning her head to rest their foreheads together again. "You have to go now."

With clear reluctance in her expression, Brittany nods and kisses Santana slowly, savouring the way their bodies just seem to mould against each other, and the way their lips fit together just like they did two and a half years ago. Damn it, this is going to be so much harder than she thought.

So Santana breaks the kiss, knowing if she doesn't then Brittany's just going to pull her back again and they won't be moving from this spot for a long amount of time, as they reacquaint themselves in each other's lips. She steps away, clearing her throat and smiling as their fingers remain laced together in the gap between them. Brittany slides off the column and Santana leads them towards the SUV where Quinn's standing with her arms crossed, staring at them expectantly by the open back door.

Her expression seems to get her point across, because Quinn gives her a small smile and says, "I'll give you two a minute." Before sliding into the driver's seat, with Rachel in the passengers.

"I'm gonna miss you." Brittany admits, sincerity pouring out of every word. "A lot."

Santana smiles knowingly, which feels kind of weird but she's not one to object at this current point in time. "I'm gonna miss you too."

The hesitancy is clear on her face, or maybe it isn't, but Brittany see's it anyway because knuckles brush against her forehead, pushing back a stray lock before tilting her chin up. "We'll talk when everything's over, okay?"

"Okay." Santana breathes, her chest feeling that little bit lighter. Her eyes flicker towards the SUV, and even through the tinted windows she can feel Quinn's eyes on her. "You have to go."

She sees Brittany's protest and puts a finger to her lips to hush the words before they come out. "You have to leave now or I won't be able to let you go."

Brittany doesn't have an answer for that, and instead Santana ushers her into the backseat, unthreading their fingers and waiting until Brittany's buckled her seatbelt before offering a longing glance. It sends fear straight through Santana's gut, and she shuts the door before the urge to drag Brittany out the car and into her arms once more becomes too much.

She goes to turn away, hands dug deep into her jacket pocket when a whurring sound comes from the window and suddenly Brittany's there, head hanging half out the door resting on her arms. "You'll come for me, right? When everything's done, you'll come for me?"

Santana looks past the blonde at Rachel who's staring at her from the passenger seat. With Brittany gone, this guy could snap and go all Texas Chainsaw on her, and Santana knows that. Rachel knows that. Quinn knows that. Hell, even Karofsky fucking knows that. But Brittany doesn't. Or if she does, she's completely eluded because of some fucked up spell holding her under.

So instead, she steps forward, kissing Brittany in lieu of an answer and tries to convey her words through her kisses. It's light, but at the same time heavy with meaning. And she pulls away before it can get too much, too much for her heart, too much for her body and too much for her brain.

The SUV's engine revs in front of her, and she forces a smile, knowing it's hopeless because Brittany can read her better than anyone else. She doesn't even look up from the ground as the car pulls away from the curb; following the two identical SUV's in front of it and heads down the driveway. Because if she does, the familiar set of blue orbs will send her running after the car, chasing it down until she's sitting next to Brittany, arms wrapped around the dancer's frame and heart feeling at ease.

And she won't let that happen.

Brittany's gone. Brittany's heading for safety. And Brittany _will_ be safe, with people Santana trusts. Rachel and Quinn have got their shit together. Kurt and Blaine are happy together. Puck's still an ass, but Puck will_ always_ be an ass. And Karofsky… Well, she doesn't really give a shit about Karofsky.

Everyone's happy.

Except for her.

Because, this fucking psycho, stalker, freak is messing up her moment. Messing up her and Brittany and fucking everything up.

So Santana's going to get this guy. She's going to get him, put a stop to him and finally be happy. For once she's going to be fucking happy, with nothing getting in her way and with Brittany in her arms.

She's going to get this guy. She's going to get this guy, hard.

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><p><strong>THE END!<strong>

_**Just kidding… Just kidding. **_**It's not really the end.**

**Damn, tough crowd. **

**Anyways, hope you've enjoyed this chapter, please review if you have time and Merry fucking Christmas!**

**REMEMBER! ** _justsomebrittanagleek_ [.] tumblr [.] com FOR SPOILERS/TEASERS AND ANY QUESTIONS REGARDING ANYTHING TO DO WITH MY FICS! ****

****THANKS GUYS!****


	13. chapter twelve

**Holy crap, I honestly didn't know how much you guys love this fic. I've had so many questions, reviews, story alerts and favourites it's overwhelming – so I'm giving you a little something in this chapter to try and cheer up your spirits! Heh!**

**Anyways, I apologise for the wait and hope this makes up for it!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Unfortunately, I don't own anything to do with Glee. Sucks to be me.

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><p><strong>The Bodyguard:<br>Chapter Twelve**

The house is too quiet when she steps inside. The rooms are vacant, there's no quiet mutterings coming from any of the rooms, and it's not as homey as Santana remembers it. She doesn't need to ask why, because she knows why - Brittany's gone, and she's taken all the warmth and light with her. It's just… Well, cliché as it might be, wherever the blonde is, _that's_ where Santana feels at ease, where Santana feels like she's at peace, where Santana feels like she's home.

"It's weird without her here."

The sudden voice startles her, and she turns to Blaine beside her, smiling weakly. "Yeah."

"It feels empty."

"Yeah." She repeats, knowing only too well. There's been a damn hole growing in her chest, stretching her and leaving her to feel empty. It's been there ever since that damn SUV disappeared down the driveway, and out of Santana's sight. Even a night's sleep hasn't done anything to dull it. "I know."

Blaine seems to sense the sudden downfall in Santana's mood because he clears his throat and says, a little too cheerily; "So what's the plan, bodyguard?"

Santana shrugs, feeling a tingling spine crawling up her spine. "I haven't really thought it through all that much."

"And you sent Brittany away anyway?"

The urge to punch him surges down her left arm, sparking through her fingertips. Because even though she knows he's right – doesn't mean she _wants_ him to be. Her first priority was to get Brittany out of there, get Brittany away from the place the psycho's been and to make sure she's safe. Without her here, there's no reason for the psycho to come back – and if he does, she's going to be waiting, snarling aggressively and two desert eagles welded to her palms. She sent Brittany anyway because her safety comes first, the way it's always been for Santana.

"Just out of curiosity," Blaine starts, shutting the door behind them and cutting off the cool breeze blowing through the house. "Why didn't you go with her? I mean, you're her bodyguard and all?"

"I have to get this guy." Santana explains wearily, scuffing her socked foot along the hardwood floor as if it'll rub away the stupid empty feeling beneath her skin. "If she's here, I can't concentrate properly, knowing she's not a safe distance away from that _freak _whilst he's prancing around like nobody's business."

Blaine narrows his eyes as she looks up, like he doesn't understand. So she continues. "Brittany's protection is my priority. My first and only priority. Every time I've chasing this guy, she's been in the back of my mind, and I've been constantly worrying about her safety. Now she's not, I can focus, get my head in the game and find this asshole."

"So she needed to travel half-way across the country for you to do that?" Blaine replies, ushering Santana towards the living room. "_That's_ what you call a safe distance?"

Santana can hear the laughter brimming beneath his lips, but her mood doesn't allow her to catch on. "Yeah." She answers seriously, "She's far enough away that I won't worry about him finding her."

Blaine sits gingerly on one of the couch cushions, and pats the one next to him, which Santana takes. "Wow, Santana. That's really selfless of you."

The words sound like he's being sarcastic and she almost shoots him a death scowl, but when she sees his approving nod and genuine smile, a wave of guilt washes over her and she frowns. He leans back into the couch, stretching one arm over the back and the other laying carelessly across his lap, crossing one leg over the other.

"If it were me, I couldn't stand to be away from Kurt." He says non-chalantly, plucking at a loose thread on the couch.

Santana's head snaps up. "What?"

"Just that, if _I_ were in your shoes – I wouldn't feel safe without Kurt by my side."

A sudden nervous energy flows through her, and her foot taps impatiently against the carpet covered floor. Her eyes scan around the surrounding area, and she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, nipping at the skin roughly. Blaine does have a point. Now that Brittany's gone, she hasn't stopped worrying about how she is, or what she's doing. For all Santana knows, this guy could be tailing her and-

"I'm sorry, Santana." Blaine cuts into her thoughts, "I'm just having a hard time finding the reason why _you're_ here, and she's not. Weren't you hired as her _personal_ bodyguard?"

Santana mulls over it for a second, knowing the answer as she thinks. "Well, yeah."

"Then why is she in Alaska, and you're not?"

"If I'm out in Alaska with her, I can't get him." Santana explains, lamely. Knowing her points are failing second by second. "And the whole point of going there will be eradicated."

"Santana," Blaine starts, shuffling closer and placing his hand over hers. "_You_ are her personal bodyguard. _We_are the security team. _We_ deal with her general safety, whilst you deal with her _personal _safety."

"I know… But-"

"But nothing, Santana." His interruptions are starting to get slightly annoying, but she's willing to listen. Even though the disapproval in his tone is evident, which does nothing to quell her growing frustration. "The police are also there for a reason."

Santana jumps up, tugging down her Columbia t-shirt and glaring down at him. "They've been doing _fuck all_, Anderson. They haven't caught him or anything."

"And you have?" Blaine retorts softly, rising from the couch with no malice behind his words. "Santana, before you came, Brittany spent the majority of her time locked up in the dance studio, crying herself to sleep and pushing any job offers to the side because she was so damn scared of this guy. Quinn thought we were going to have to take her to see a doctor or something because that girl never had a smile on her face, and you know how Brittany is, so we were pretty worried to say the least."

Santana clenches her jaw, and leans back against the couch, still listening to Blaine intently. All she can see is images of Brittany flashing through her mind, distraught and dancing herself to oblivion. The thought punches her straight in the stomach, because she knows that since she's been here, she's only been focusing on getting the hell out of here, and not actually taking her job seriously.

"But then you arrived," Blaine continues, his hand still resting on top of Santana's. "And she's started going out more. She did a gig, and even taught a dance lesson, Santana. All because of you."

"Oh." Is all that she can summon to say.

The realization has hit her and now she's just kind of sitting on the sofa, staring into space whilst her mind is running a mile a minute. For some reason, guilt starts to build inside of her, and she swallows against the tears thickening her throat. It all makes sense. The strange looks from Karofsky, the surprised expression on Quinn's face. Up until now she just thought they were looking at her strangely. It never occurred to her that maybe Brittany felt safer whilst she was around. Then again, right now she doesn't know why she ever thought different. Even she feels safer when Brittany's around. It's like they're two pieces of the puzzle, and they're stronger together.

Blaine shuffles forward, his eyes darting from left to right in a quizzical manner. "Santana?"

The door swings open from the foyer, but Santana doesn't pay any attention to it. "Yes?"

"You've been out for like, three minutes."

She keeps her eyes straight ahead, watching the trees sway in the wind outside the window pane on the far side of the room. "Oh." Santana's barely even listening, and the vacant expression she's wearing, shows that.

So Blaine repeats, "Santana?"

"Yah," her eyes flash to him, startled, and she finally takes in the raised eyebrows and quizzical look. "Oh," she clears her throat and straightens up. "Sorry, I just never thought about it like that."

"Well I apologise if-"

"No." Santana cuts in, waving her hands in front of her as if to repeat the 'no'. "There's no need to apologise. Just kind of gave me an epiphany."

Karofsky slaps down his palms on the ledge of the couch, scaring both of the occupants of it. "What's an epiphany?"

"It's a realization of the truth, Dave." Blaine rolls his eyes at Karofsky's interruption, which makes Santana chuckle. "You might know that if you ever read a book."

Karofsky glares at him, curling his upper lip into a half snarl whilst towering over the sofa. Even though Santana's cussed him enough to last for years, and pretty much kicked his ass, there's still something daunting about him. It might be his size, the broad shoulders and constantly buffed out chest, or maybe the way he's just so _big_, not only in physical size but mental. Sure, she could hit him, but the way he sneers and snarls at practically anyone, bar Azimio, who come to think of it, she hasn't seen in a while, it makes her wonder whether in a few years' time, a screen shot of him with _known wife beater_ scribbled underneath his personal file, will be spreading around the tri-state area.

"You wanna meet The Fury?" Karofsky growls, clenching his right fist and thrusting it towards Blaine's face violently

But Santana sees it before it happens, and her fingers are curling around his wrist, snapping it away and smirking as he winces at the pressure. "Back off, Karofsky. I've kicked your ass once, I'll do it again."

"You got me on an off day. I could pound your head in."

Santana quirks an eyebrow, and bares her teeth. "The only thing you pound is the sand. Or Azimio's ass if you're in the mood. So back the fuck off, Shrek."

She knows it was a cheap shot, and a crude one at that. But judging Blaine's gasp as Karofsky steps closer, it certainly hit a nerve. His fist is hurtling through the air two seconds later, the air around Santana _whooshing_ by as his fist collides with her palm, which she raises just in time to catch it. She stumbles back; still gripping Karofsky's fist and yanks back violently, trying to take out all the anger that's pent up inside her on the only available outlet. He falls forward, falling straight over the back and sliding down until his face collides with the hardwood floor with a crunch. Her grip on his fist is long gone, and she delivers a swift kick to the arm supporting his body, which only makes him fall to the floor again, his body rolling off and slumping on the floor.

"Santana." Blaine half-yells. "Stop."

Santana deliberates whether or not to continue kicking the shit out of Karofsky, but when her eyes flicker up to find Blaine with narrowed eyes and a judgemental expression, the anger dissipates and she slumps down on the coffee table, still glaring at Karofsky who's struggling to get to his feet. He's taken a beating, and good on him for doing so – Santana knows she can pack a punch, and could probably kill him with her bare hands – so considering this is the second time he's done this, and he still comes back for more, she has to give him some credit.

"Now that that's settled," Blaine starts, eyeing up the two security figures, "We need to decide what we're doing."

Karofsky grunts, which Santana guesses is his version of acceptance and joins in with a nod. "Yeah, we do."

"Dave, how do you feel about Santana going to Alaska?"

Santana's eyes widen comically, and she snaps her head up to look at Blaine who's sitting on the sofa innocently, with Karofsky next to him. "I think…" Santana awaits a snarky comment, or something. So what she hears next is definite not what she expected. "I think it's a good idea. She needs to be with Brittany."

She watches the bulkier of the men for any sign of sarcasm, but nope, nothing. "What?"

"I said," Karofsky twists his body to face Santana, "It's a good idea. You should be with her."

"Wow." Santana breathes out, brows up by her hairline.

Karofsky's never been one for affection, and yeah, this is a hell of a long way from it – but it's still a step closer than he's ever been before. Santana's never known him to be nice, and as she studies his face, searching for any underlying malice, but there isn't any. It's such a shock to actually see him being nice, that the scoff builds up in the pit of her stomach and threatens to spurt from her lips.

Karofsky curls his upper lip, returning his face to the usual scowl. "Obviously just for Brittany's protection." It seems that Karofsky doesn't like showing a sensitive side of himself, and Santana totally gets that. She knows what it's like to feel vulnerable.

"Then I think you have your answer, Santana." Blaine's tone is final, and both he and Karofsky are staring at Santana like she's supposed to be doing something.

So she does.

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><p>Santana climbs out the small aircraft, immediately tugging on the lapels of her jacket to cover her exposed neck. The wind is pin-prickingly cold against her cheeks, and she'd do anything to be wrapped up in front of a fire right now with a nice cup of steaming hot coffee. But no, instead she's treading carefully across the slippery black ice beneath her Timberland boots, trying not to fall over and break her coccyx – it wasn't fun during the Winter of Freshman year after Brittany insisted they go ice skating, and it sure as hell wouldn't be fun now.<p>

There's a large black Hummer waiting about fifty yards away, a smart Asian man standing with the keys next to it. It's taken around eight hours to get here, since it was the only available flight she could get last minute, and around the same amount of time to convince Kurt that Blaine wasn't the mass murderer posing as Blaine just to get the address, considering they'd left about twelve hours before and in some ways their question was suspicious.

She manages to cross the patch of ice that basically covers the whole damn ground, and shoots a smile to the Asian man who hands her the keys and walks off. She swings the door open, lugging her duffel bag in the passenger seat and clambers in, hoping the engine was still hot enough that she'll be blasted with warm air to chill her cold body. Luckily, as she turns the ignition, the warm air blasts out the vents. She hates the cold.

The trees and surroundings blur past her, and thank God she managed to get a 4x4 car because if not, this snow and ice would seriously screw her over. Then again, does Alaska even have any other types of cars? There wouldn't really be any point.

Brittany's cabin is about four miles away from her, according to the GPS system attached to the windscreen, and she can't help but feel nervous. Yeah, they'd said goodbyes with kisses and hugs, and yeah she'd practically say they were together – but it still doesn't ease her nervous heart. Are they even together, like officially? Are they going to delve straight back into their relationship, or build it up again, from the start? It seems slightly ridiculous considering the past few days, and considering they're already slept together, it only increases the confusion of the situation.

"Stupid," Santana chastises herself, "Stupid, stupid."

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, her skin turning a deathly white as her knuckles push against it. She wants to forget everything, to go back to being Brittany and Santana, and erase the uncertainty sitting between them. They're still in love, they want to be together and for the first time in forever, Santana's actually happy that they have this warped reunion happening between them. She needs answers, she needs to talk to Brittany and get them before anything happens, before she can finally be content with her feelings.

About five minutes later, the GPS beeps and Santana finally shakes herself out of her thoughts to see the cabin up ahead. Her heart starts pounding a mile a minute, knowing Brittany's less than fifty metres away from her. It's been less than twenty four hours since she's seen Brittany, there haven't been any texts or phone calls sure, but it still feels like forever. She wants Brittany in her arms, their legs tangled and fingers threaded together, kissing slowly and passionately. But _fuck_, she needs to talk first, talk about their relationship or whatever the hell is going on between them.

The car rolls up the slight slope, making quick work of the snow beneath the wheels and comes to a stop. She puts it in park, and reaches across the centre console to grab her bag when her phone buzzes. The itch forms at the back of her neck, and she squeezes her eyes against the all too familiar sensation. Slowly, she pulls the phone out of her pocket and looks at the screen.

_Unknown caller._

She hasn't even picked up the damn phone yet, and she doesn't want too. Not out of impatience and excitement to get into the cabin, but yeah, sure, that too, but for the convenience of her phone ringing and itch forming at the same time. There must be a connection. Unless someone's ringing her, and just happened to block their number. That happens all the time right?

It does. But not at three in the morning. And not to Santana.

Reluctantly, she presses the call button and picks up. "Hello?"

The person on the other ends laughs evilly, and horror fills her entire being. It seeps through her veins, sliding into her arteries and attacking her muscles, restricting the movement. Her fingers tighten against the cell phone, and she clenches her jaw in anger.

"I will find you." The line clicks off without another word, and Santana brings the phone away from her ear to see the words LINE DISCONNECTED flashing on the screen.

Santana's heart is racing a mile a minute, and all of a sudden a spell of dizziness takes over her brain. She leans her forehead against the top of the driving wheel, letting her hand fall limp as the phone slips out and into the foot well of the passenger seat. Brittany's gone away to fucking Alaska, and still, this fucking psycho is still freaking the shit out of Santana. Her eyes scan the dark area, seeing the snow lighten it just that little bit but there's no-one around.

It's not like she's expecting this freak to be standing with a neon sign above his head, waving his phone around and shouting _I'm here_ – but damn, that _would _help.

This is just getting fucking tedious.

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><p>It's cold and eerily quiet, but the mere presence of Brittany in the house makes her chest feel that little bit lighter. Blaine had given her a key just before she left, since Quinn had left it with him, and Santana just grinned and accepted it – despite the intense suspicion she's growing for everyone at the moment, even <em>Blaine.<em>

She creeps up the stairs, trying to make as little noise as she can until she reaches the top step. There's one long hallway, stretching either side of her and frankly, she doesn't know which one is Brittany's room. Bags in hand, she makes a quick decision and heads down the hall to her right. It's a Brittany and Santana thing, because she can already feel the smile tugging at her lips as she stands outside one of the doors.

Without a doubt, it's Brittany's room. If it wasn't for the overwhelming scent of Brittany, the sign on the door with _Brittany_ scribbled on it would probably be a give-away. She slips inside, as quietly as possible and drops her bags by the small en-suite bathroom. Her shoes are off the next second, and then her coat, leaving her in jeans and a loose _Nike_ hoody.

Santana quickly steps into the bathroom, flicking on the light and staring into the mirror above the sink. Her hair's loose, and slightly damp from the melted snow flakes, her make-ups a little smeared, for the same reason and her eyes are… Well, pretty damn bright, considering their dark brown. She's never noticed how dull her eyes have been for the past few years until now. It's like someone's ignited a spark behind them and suddenly they're shining, and there's no need to ask who that someone was, because she's sleeping in the next room.

"Brittany." She breathes, shaking herself out and trying to take the sappy smile that's taken over her lips.

She slips out the bathroom, and reaches for the switch as her other hand rubs against her temple. It feels way to domestic to be walking into a room where she knows Brittany is, but if she wants to be happy, she's gotta get used to it.

"If you get any closer, I have my personal bodyguard a room down, ready to kick your ass."

Santana halts in her movement, whipping her head up to see Brittany standing in the shadows of the room, grasping something resembling a lamp. She holds back the chuckle brewing in her stomach and steps back, raising both hands into the air. "Well, I know that's not true, Britt."

The light flicks on and Brittany stands wide-eyed, hair dishevelled and wearing a small pair of pyjama shorts and a similar hoody to the ones Santana's wearing. They stay there for a few long seconds, drinking in the sight of each other and simultaneously, grins spread across their face. There's a thud that echoes around the room, and before Santana has a chance to recover, Brittany's in her arms, pressing their lips together.

It seems like forever since they've kissed, even though in reality it barely counts as a day. Of course, Santana welcomes the warm, soft pair of lips on her own and simply accepts it willingly, completely forgetting the fact that barely ten minutes ago, she got a freaky ass phone call from the asshole ruining their sweet, sweet reunion.

"God, I missed you." Brittany mumbles against Santana's lips, inhaling quickly and pushing back with more fervour as her hands slip underneath Santana's hoody.

Santana gasps, feeling Brittany's soft fingers graze against her taut stomach and lets out a small moan. "I missed you too."

It wasn't exactly how she planned, but within a few seconds, she's pushed her own hands underneath Brittany's hoody and taken it off, along with her own. Brittany's lips taste just as amazing as they did yesterday, and she wonders why the hell she even let Brittany go alone. Oh wait, she knows. She let Brittany go because of this fucking psychopath, and because she needed time away from Brittany to make sure nothing was threatening their… Whatever it is going on between them. Damn, another reason why they shouldn't be slowly stripping.

Oh screw it, they can talk tomorrow.

"San," Brittany mumbles as Santana starts an oral assault down the pale slope of the blonde's neck. She knows what's coming; she can hear it in Brittany's voice, and inwardly, she curses herself for knowing that. "San."

So reluctantly - reluctantly meaning summoning every inch of her being to do so - she pulls back and sweeps her tongue along her lips one final time to taste the remains of Brittany on them. "Yeah?"

"We still need to talk."

Santana lets out a long exhale and rubs her thumb pads in circular motions on Brittany's hipbones, revelling in the feeling of being able to do it once more. "We do."

Brittany leads them towards the bed, and Santana perches on the side, one leg tucked underneath her and the other dangling off the side. Their fingers are laced together, resting in between them above the comforter and she restrains the urge to smile as a pale thumb swipes across her the back of her knuckles.

"I've missed you." Brittany says, sounding small and hesitant, like Santana's not going to say it back. How wrong she is.

Santana shuffles closer and tilts Brittany's face up with her forefinger. "I've missed you too."

"What does this mean then?" Brittany asks, sound timid. "For us?"

She wants to say that they're together, she wants to say that everything's fine between them and that they can just back into the realms of normalcy. But there's something tugging at the strings on her heart. It's the damn wall. The same damn wall that makes her feel cold and empty, the same wall that forces her to be alone because it doesn't allow anyone to get close to her.

"I don't know, Britt." Santana says, ducking her head in defeat, willing the tears away. "I don't know."

She hates this feeling, this vulnerable, weak feeling that she can't seem to become accustomed too. If she ever wants to be with Brittany again, she knows she's going to have to push past it and battle her fears, but she can't seem to do it. There's some concrete wall blocking her path, and she knows she'll either have to scale or dig underneath it, but it's like she's too scared too – in case she falls, or in case the wall comes crashing down. It's a protection thing, she knows it is, but it's getting really fucking annoying now.

She glances up through thick eyelashes too see Brittany biting on her bottom lip. What she wouldn't do to kiss those lips right now. "Can we not talk?" Santana sighs, knowing she's just trying to delay the inevitable. "Not tonight, please."

Brittany hesitates for a moment, and in the back of her mind, Santana tries to remember which doors were open and where she can sleep for the night. There's no way she'll be able to sleep in the same bed with Brittany without having her hormones take over her actions. Even though she was kind of heading in that direction before, sex is probably counterproductive to their emotional problems – even if it'll work wonders for their physical ones.

"Okay," Brittany whispers, pushing Santana until her back hits the comforter. "We won't talk tonight." She adds, throwing one leg over Santana midsection until she's straddling her hips.

Shocked, Santana nods and opens her mouth to reject Brittany's intentions when she's hushed by a pair of lips on her own. She gives in, because it's not like she has any restraint not too, and let's herself melt into the taste of Brittany once more. Once the kiss broke, she barely has time to smile dreamily up at Brittany before the blonde pulls her own shirt off, and then Santana's shirt and hoody in two swift, skill full and transparently needy motions that makes her chuckle despite her inwardly thanking God she wasn't wearing a bra.

Brittany, of course, doesn't mind the giggle or lack of bra, and presses their lips back together and smiles into the kiss. Santana runs her hands up Brittany's bare thighs, her fingertips slipping underneath the shorts to reveal the non-existent underwear. It immediately sends a shot of arousal spirally through her body and bottoming out in the apex of her thighs. Damn, there isn't one thing about Brittany that isn't really fucking sexy.

Santana rolls them, and somehow manages to push them up on to the bed so their laying on their sides, facing each other with heads on pillows. Her fingertips trail up Brittany's topless side, grazing her ribcage lightly and then up to her shoulder, tracing an invisible line up the wonderfully pale skin of Brittany's neck and then across her jawline. She leans back, breaking their lips to stare deeply into dark blue eyes, one so entrancing she could lose herself in them. But then Brittany leans back in, and ghosts her lips across Santana's as if they're not there, whilst her hand is cupping her jaw, thumb pad running across her bottom lip.

For a series of long, sweetly beautiful moments any ideas of removing the rest of their clothes shoot straight out their minds, because as they're now lost in the feel of each other's lips, with tongues sensually sliding across each other and noses grazing one another. It's hard to believe for Santana to believe that after the past few years of pain, that this is really happening. Slowly, her fingertips are tracing every inch of Brittany's skin like a map that she's memorized. Every curve, every contour, every sweet spot that causes a shudder to emanate throughout Brittany's body is still there, and knowing that feels fucking amazing. It's not like she didn't think it would be, but the shock that everything's still how it was physically, yet everything has changed emotionally, is pretty hard to take in all at once.

Santana wants to take her time, to indulge herself of the physical reunion between the two, as Brittany sucks lightly on her bottom lip – but her body seems to have different ideas. The longer they're kissing and pressing themselves together, the faster the soft, exploring touches and sweet kisses seem to be transforming into something more eager, and needy. She's trying to take it slow, but now that Brittany's tracing a single finger down the valley of her breasts, scratching lightly on her taut abs and then toying with the waistband on her jeans – she's finding it pretty damn hard to keep control.

"Britt," Santana lets out through a moan, "We should…"

The words die off in her mouth as Brittany's hand starts to teasingly caress the hot skin right underneath the waistband of her panties, and her lips begin to travel down the nape of Santana's neck. She wants to regain the little control she has, but now as Brittany traces her tongue up Santana's neck and then nips lightly, that minimal amount is falling apart rapidly.

"I missed you," Brittany whispers as her hand glides beneath the fabric barrier of Santana's pants and starts to massage her most sensitive spot. Yep, these restraining efforts are officially out the window. "So much."

Santana gulps, and presses the back of her hand to her forehead, loving the feel of Brittany's fingers working miracles on her once more. She's too lost in the pale fingers teasingly sliding between her slick folds to even think to say the words back, and so instead she allows her eyes to roll into the back of her head as Brittany delves ever so slightly into her. It's almost embarrassing how close she is already, and Brittany hasn't even entered her.

"Oh God." She moans lightly as Brittany straddles one of her thighs, and continues her ministrations on the spot she needs it most.

Within a couple of well-placed strokes, and a curl upwards reaching and finding that sweet, little spot that only Brittany has ever been able to find, she feels the spark ignite inside of her and explode into a million fireworks. The red-hot heat simmering in the pit of her stomach fizzles, burning every nerve in her body as she sees stars on the insides of her eyelids. A soft 'Santana' is whispered into her ear as she continues to shudder, and arches underneath Brittany's body, her breasts pushing up against pale ones. And then within a few mind-blowing seconds, she feels her body being gently lowered by a strong, pale arm, bringing her down from her unbelievable high.

Santana doesn't give herself time to recover as she leans in, and nudges her nose against Brittany's, leaving both of them to smile at each other stupidly for a few seconds. A breath breaks the happy stupor, and she leans in gently, brushing her lips against Brittany's so softly it can barely count as a kiss. The blue in Brittany's eyes that Santana feels like she's going to fall in, and her mind starts to swim and suddenly she feels like she's 15 again, kissing Brittany for the first time and feeling breathless and dizzy and all those cliché things people say you should feel when you have your first kiss.

Santana pushes forward the smallest bit, kissing Brittany's bottom lip gently and then moving towards her top and then repeating the process. Their leisurely kisses that length and deepens as time goes by. It could be seconds, it could be minutes, but kissing Brittany has always been one of her favourite things, if not her _most_ favourite thing – and she finds herself losing her mind in the kiss. Her head tilts, and she switches sides as one of her hands trails an invisible line down Brittany's ribs, down to her waist and then around the outline of her hipbones, whilst the other moves from Brittany's cheek to her neck, tracing her jawline with a lazy thumb and then round to the nape of her neck to secure their faces together.

"I love you," Brittany whispers as their lips part momentarily. Her blue eyes search Santana's, and the breath hitches in her throat as she processes those three words.

She wants to say it, _God,_ she really does. But Santana knows about love. She's seen the different types of love in action, brotherly love, tough love, spiritual love, unrequited love – and each one has their individual experiences which, as pessimistic as it might be, mostly end up with someone getting hurt, someone getting their heart ripped to shreds. She knows that, better than most people do. All love does is lead to pain, lies and hate. It makes Santana want to turn away and never see or speak of it again. She's lived through the horrifying aftermath of love, she's endured the evil twin of love – and to put herself in that position again… The unpredictability of it, the lack of control, the unbearable aching it does, whether it's bad or good… To put herself through that again with no promises of getting out alive once more, because frankly the first escape was pretty damn lucky – is… _hard. _It's terrifying, and chills Santana to her very core. And for her to be able to say those words back again, with the intimacy of their now naked bodies tangling, and eyes locking in a deep gaze, means opening herself up fully.

But for the first time in a long time, she doesn't feel the wall restricting her heart. For the first time, she doesn't feel the anguish that accompanies the mere thought of love. She just says, "I love you too." And means it.

Brittany lifts her head and kisses her, her hands going down Santana's back and down to her ass, pulling her closer. Santana feels the subtle hip grind, silently pleading with a small _please_ and smiles into the kiss at the way she can _still_ read Brittany. She nips at Brittany's bottom lip, dragging it back and then kissing her once more before kissing down her jawline, neck and then collarbones. For a couple of seconds, she gets to familiarise the map of Brittany's body, starting with her toned abs, with her fingertips whilst pressing open mouth kisses down the valley of Brittany's breasts. She replaces her fingertips with her tongue, and traces a circle _incredibly_ slowly around Brittany's navel – loving the way her muscles twitch underneath her touch.

With one quick kiss to each of Brittany's hipbones, she dips lower and groans at the sweet taste that fills her mouth once more. Brittany's back arches up, and her head buries deeper into the pillow as Santana drags her tongue up in one flat, smooth motion. It's something of beauty, being able to have this effect on someone you love – being able to give them exactly what they want, and know just _how_ to give it to them.

"San…" Brittany breathes out, her hands clenching and releasing in Santana's hair with the motions of Santana's tongue.

The thighs beside her start to shake and shudder, and a wave of satisfaction flows through her body as she realises she isn't the only one that's been needing this. So to quicken the speed, she slides two fingers into Brittany, feeling the muscles clenching around her wandering digits and mixes a flick of her tongue with a perfect curl of her finger – knowing _exactly _what it'll do.

"Oh my Go-" Right on cue, Brittany's gasping and groaning loudly into the cool, crisp air of the bedroom, body quivering underneath Santana's touch – and despite the intimacy of the situation, she smiles into hot flesh and laps up the remains.

It rips the breath right out of her when she sits up on her knees, gazing down at Brittany and just seeing the complete adoration staring back at her through the bluest, most trusting eyes she's even seen. Even if Brittany's ears are tinged pink, her hair ruffled and face flushed with the aftermath of her orgasm. She leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to Brittany's lips before rolling and lying on her back to stare at the ceiling, inwardly grinning at herself. Brittany moves next, throwing one leg over Santana's whilst pressing her front into Santana's sides. Her fingers dance across Santana's abs, trailing the outline of defined muscles and then across to her ribs.

Santana peeks down, tucking one hand behind her head and the other brushing away a blonde lock of hair fallen stray across Brittany's face. "Hey."

Brittany tilts her head back, revealing a sappy grin. "Hi."

There's an uncomfortable feeling bubbling within Santana, and she tries to push it back because she knows _exactly_ what will come of it if she takes notice. The cynical, doubtful side screams at her though, tugging away all the resolve she has to ignore the feeling and shouts that the happiness she's feeling _will_ disappear and she'll return to her zombie like state, wandering around aimlessly and trudging through each day with no hope for the future. It's the uncertainty that tries to reach out, and rebuild the wall that's crumbled.

So, despite the overwhelming factor that they're in bed together again, legs entangled and Brittany's head tucked beneath her chin, ear pressed to her chest and listening to her heartbeat – she closes her eyes and hopes that her fear won't ruin the best thing that's happened to her in years.

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><p><em>It'd been two weeks since Brittany left. Two gruelling weeks that she'd spent locked up inside her dorm, pizza boxes and empty beer bottles spread across the floor and study books lying open and unused on her desk top. Ever since Brittany walked out, Santana hadn't talked to anyone, seen anyone and managed to avoid leaving her room. It'd just been the way she dealt with the pain.<em>

_But it had been the umpteenth time that she'd ignored her cell buzzing on the desk, next to the ever-growing stack of post-it notes Santana had written on, trying to figure out what she could do or say if she ever talked to Brittany again. Sad, yes, but heartbreak has done stranger things to people. So reluctantly, when it rang again, she pressed the pause button to freeze Noah and Allie on screen, and shuffled her way across her dorm to answer her phone._

"_What?" She snapped, feeling the anger rush through her veins at a chilling speed. _

"_Where the hell have you been? What are you doing? Are you okay? Are you dying?" Quinn rushed out, the questions virtually merging into one large_ _question. "Damn it, Santana! What the fuck is going on?"_

_Santana rolled her eyes, even though Quinn couldn't see it. "Nothing."_

"_Don't fucking lie to me, Lopez." Quinn yelled down the phone. Santana almost hung up right then and there, but the image of comical steam blowing out Quinn's ears distracted her long enough to hear the rest of Quinn's babbling. "I've had Brittany on the phone to me crying my eyes out, and then suddenly moving to LA, and you've been screening my fucking calls for two weeks!"_

_Santana bit on her quivering bottom lip as unshed tears built beneath her eyes. Her heart wrenched and ached in ways she didn't know were possible, but two weeks of them had only given her time to adjust to the sinking feeling she felt every damn day. The name of the person rang through her brain like the after effects of a bell, and every time it repeated on her mind – she found herself curled up into a tight ball, sobbing her life away._

"_So what the fuck did you do this time?" Quinn finished, her voice still high and aggressive._

_Santana couldn't hold it any longer, and felt a stray tear fall down the expanse of her cheek. "Quinn I-"_

"_No." Quinn snapped, interrupting Santana's words. "What the fuck did you do? Both of you always have fights, so apologise for whatever you've done and be done with it."_

_Frustration built up inside of Santana, but she had no urge to release it. Sadness was the only feeling she could feel at that time. "I didn't do anything." She wept, rolling over on her side and burying her face into the pillows._

"_You obviously did!"_

_Continuous streams of tears poured out of Santana's eyes. "No, Qu-"_

"_Just fucking apologise."_

_The anger built up inside of Santana and she wrenched the cover off from around her shoulders and stood rigid by the side of her bed. It seemed Quinn was taking the painful heartbreak off her mind and replace it with sheer anger. Best friends are supposed to do that, even if this method wasn't in the most conventional. _

"_She fucking left me, Q!" Santana shouted, the tears continuing to flow through her aggressive words. "She fucking took her bags, left her damn promise ring and walked straight out the fucking door!"_

_Quinn was silent down the end of the phone, and Santana slumped to the floor, defeated. "I've been ignoring your calls because I'm a fucking mess, Quinn." Her voice was lower, more broken and showing the vulnerability as she keeled over, letting her feelings pour out through her tear ducts and whispered; "She's gone."_

_That night, Santana and Quinn talked for hours – and despite the comforting words and reassuring promises – Santana still woke in the morning with a broken heart and a damp pillow._

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><p>Santana wakes startled. She hasn't dreamt about the following weeks after Brittany left in months, and dreaming about it now only worries her. Usually, those dreams lead to something bad. No, she's just being stupid. Her head's pounding and she clenches her jaw at the dull ache that still throbs in her chest at the memories. It's something she's learnt not to put too much focus on, seeing as it only grows with concentration. It's only when her palm slides across the sheet to find it cold, that she starts to panic. Her head whips from left to right, searching the dark room, her heartbeat running faster than a leopard on speed.<p>

"Britt?" Santana calls out, slipping the sheet off her bare legs and shuddering at the sudden cold that greets her. "Britt?"

She slips into a pair of Brittany's sweatpants and shrugs on her hoody as she makes her way out the bedroom, peeking quickly into an empty bathroom. The hallway is quiet, and she narrows her eyes as she continues down towards the top of the stairs. Her feet lead her down the stairs, ears perked up, trying to hear anything in response. It's just a strange coincidence, the dream and the sudden absence of Brittany. The bad feeling... The _itch_ at the back of her neck... It's all just a fucked up coincidence. It's nothing bad, it can be happening that way.

So, to reassure herself, she tries once more, standing in the entrance of the cabin where she knows her call will echo throughout the whole house. "Britt?"

Santana's heart drops straight into her stomach when only silence greets her call. The panic flashes through her body, shocking her until she's frozen in place, fighting back the gurgling bile rising up her throat. She sprints through the house, tugging up the bottoms of her sweatpants because they're a little too big for her and sliding around the corners, bumping into walls and objects as she frantically searches every available room for the blonde.

She can't accept this. Things between her and Brittany can't be getting better, and now Brittany's not here. She can't finally be letting herself go again, willing to love a woman that's suddenly been stripped away from her. She can't. It _can't_ be happening.

But it _is_ happening.

Brittany's missing.

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><p><strong>Yeah, I know… Apologies for the cliff-hanger! I'm a bitch and it's what I do!<strong>

**Anyway, thank you for all your reviews and please, if you have time, bless me another one with your opinions of this chapter!**

**It's late and I haven't read over this chapter so any mistakes are my own!**

**Hope you've enjoyed!**


	14. chapter thirteen

**I'm sorry for the wait on this, and if you read my other stories you'll know that earlier I posted a chapter for If It Hurts This much – so I have done two updates today and that's exhausting!**

**But thank you so much for all your input and for the great interest shown! It truly is amazing!**

**Anyway, to skip to the point, this chapter is kind of confusing, so I'll just say memories are in italics, just like they have been before. It is late, so I haven't read through it to see if it makes sense yet, so apologies for any mistakes!**

**Um, and that's it! I hope you enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Unfortunately, I don't own anything to do with Glee. Sucks to be me.

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><p><strong>The Bodyguard:<br>Chapter Thirteen**

She can barely breathe. Her lungs are slowly failing and her head dizzying whilst the room spins around her. Her knees buckle under the pain, her vision blurring until her foreheads pressing against the hardwood floor. That _freak_ has got Brittany. He's got Brittany even, when Santana was doing her fucking utmost to protect her. This is her worst nightmare, come to life.

She's going to kill him. She's going to find him, slice his limbs off one by one and watch his life drain away whilst she smirks above him. She's on her knees, facing the front door, wishing there was a punch bag, or even Karofsky so she could share some of the anguish and fury that's pounding through her veins.

"Santana?"

Santana whips her head up, spotting a figure standing in the doorway of the entrance, dressed in a woolly hat, thick scarf, bomber jacket, snow trousers and Santana's Timberland boots.

It's Brittany.

What the fuck is going on?

"Brittany?" Santana half-yells, grabbing Brittany's cheeks with her hands and staring intently into deep blue eyes. "Where the fuck have you been! Are you hurt? Where is he? I'll kill that mother fu-"

"San," Brittany breathes, cupping Santana's wrists and dragging them away from her face to lace their fingers together between them, "I'm right here."

Blue eyes flicker between brown and Santana leans forward, bringing their forehead together and trying to settle into the relief that's overshadowing the sheer panic coursing through her veins.

"I thought-" Santana gulps and her eyes flutter shut. Two minutes ago she was prepared to walk out the door, hunting knife in hand, eyes burning with fury and no awareness for her own safety as she searched for the psycho that got Brittany. Two minutes ago she thought her world was crumbling, that the rug had just been swept beneath her feet before she barely got a chance to stand on it. Two minutes ago, she was a fucking mess. "I thought he'd got you." She says, defeated, her shoulders sagging and body deflating.

Brittany gasps. "No, San," She coos into Santana's ear, hand running through dark locks. "I'm here. I'm sorry."

Santana abruptly jolts up, the panic fading and anger replacing it. "Where the hell were you? Where the hell is everyone else?"

Brittany's face falls, her eyes widening with innocence and her lower lip trembling as if she's about to cry. Immediately, Santana feels guilty and wraps her arms around Brittany's waist, hoisting the blonde's thighs either side of her hips, straddling her lap.

"Baby." Santana starts, ignoring the strange flutter that shoots through her body at the term of endearment. "I'm sorry. I just…" She squeezes her eyes shut and breathes in deeply, feeling Brittany's body mould up against each other. "You scared me."

Her head is pulled back, and blue eyes search hers deeply. There were a couple of intense minutes when she thought she wouldn't be able to be in this close proximity, or look into Brittany's beautiful blue eyes because that _freak_ had got her. She's still pissed, the aftermath of the anger slowly draining out her body, but now, with Brittany staring straight through her brown eyes and deep into her soul, she momentarily forgets why she's feeling this way.

"Santana," Brittany whispers, lifting one hand and scraping it through Santana's hair by her right temple, "I'm fine. I'm here. You don't need to worry."

Santana leans in, pressing her forehead to Brittany's. Her eyes flutter shut as their breaths mingle between them and she inhales deeply, mentally adding this moment to her memory. It's moments like these - with Brittany in her arms, lips ghosting over each other and noses nudging gently - that she's going to treasure forever. So when she's old and wrinkly, with Brittany sitting next to her in their old arm chairs, fingers laced together as they watch some new age shit on their hovering TV's, she can think back and remember how perfect they've always been – no matter the situation. Even if two minutes previous, she thought her world was falling around her.

"I love you." Brittany breathes, nothing but sheer sincerity shining through her bright blue eyes. "You know that, right?"

Santana takes a long deep breath, the uncertainty of their unofficial relationship still spiking her in the chest and then nods. "I do." She whispers, the words hovering over Brittany's lips. "I love you too."

They stay there for long moments, brown eyes boring into blue and neither wanting to move from this intimate moment. Despite it being freaking freezing because the door's still open, the winter breeze still whooshing in, and they're _still_ sitting in the middle of the entrance, on the floor. She remembers when her father always used to tell her that horrible things would happen to her butt if she sat on a cold floor for too long. Things she really doesn't want to be thinking about right now.

She feels Brittany move, sliding their foreheads away until Brittany's is pressing against her shoulder. Her hands curl around Brittany's waist, pulling their bodies closer together until it's hard to distinguish where one body ends and one begins. Santana takes a long inhale against Brittany's hair, letting the familiar scent wash through her like a wave of calm, and then opens her eyes to stare out the door.

Her brows furrow in wonderment. Where the hell _was_ Brittany?

Brittany shuffles, pushing off Santana's shoulders until she's standing, offering a hand out which Santana takes happily. "Can I use your phone? I've lost mine."

"Sure." Santana reaches into her pocket after she straightens up and takes out her phone, handing it over. "Where'd you lose it?"

Brittany shrugs, "I don't know. I thought I brought it with me, but I'm not sure."

Santana steps towards the door, shutting it with a swipe of her hand and then leans against it, ankles crossed as well as arms. "That's weird. Who you calling anyway?" She juts her chin towards the phone that Brittany's typing a number into.

"Quinn." She responds, bringing the cell up to her ear and humming as she listens to the tone. "She's down by the lake with the others, and I said I was only coming back to grab her a pair of gloves – she might be worried."

Santana nods and narrows her eyes. It's not exactly strange that they're down by the lake, but hello? It's like minus ten, and it's _ice – _like _frozen _water type of _ice_. Not the kind that you can pop into a nice Mojito on a Summer's day - the kind of ice that people can fall through and either drown, get frostbite or pneumonia, or freeze to death. Basically, the _deathly, dangerous _kind of ice.

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" Santana asks, pushing off the door and into the living room where she slips over the arm of the chair and onto the sofa cushions. "I mean… It's icy."

Brittany follows, cell still pressed to her ear and biting her bottom lip. "No it's not, when we went down there, half the lake was like unfrozen. Pretty weird, but Puck and Sam wanted to go out with the boat so guess it's kind of lucky."

There's no reason Santana should be suspicious. I mean, it's a lake, and it's nature. It's not like someone could've purposely defrosted the lake with a hairdryer or a really large microwave, just so they could go out on the boat. Plus, no-one knows they're all out here, and there's no danger in being on a boat, so this whole thought process is pretty ridiculous in itself. But still, it doesn't ease Santana – especially when there's a miniature version of the itch tugging in the back of her head.

Just in case, she pushes off the sofa, leaving Brittany to stare at her quizzically as she heads for the window. From here, she can finally take in her surroundings. The area around the cabin is like something out of a movie. It's freaking _beautiful._ There are tall pine trees everywhere, barely ten metres between each one – but not in the way that crowds the snow covered floor beneath them. The branches are mostly at the top of the tree, acting as a natural shade, or weak roof, since there are still tiny flakes of snow dropping gracefully through. Around seventy or so yards away from the cabin, there's a large, oval lake that stretches a good hundred metres wide and a tiny shack sitting by the wooden jetty, where Kurt, Rachel and Quinn are standing huddle together. Kurt's out to the side a tad, mostly because Quinn's standing behind Rachel, her arms encircling the shorter girl's waist and chin resting on the brunette's shoulder.

Kurt's the third wheel, by the look of it. _Awkward._

They're all watching Puck and Sam who are fiddling with the rope tying the small, wooden boat to the jetty and Santana grins to herself. Puck's clearly struggling with untangling the rope, and Sam's obviously trying to tell him what to do. Judging by Puck's expressions though, he's not having any of it, and even though Santana can't hear what's going on, judging by the way the other three people are throwing their heads back in laughter, it's pretty damn funny.

"Uh, Britt?" Santana calls out, her eyes still trained on everyone by the lake. "Quinn's not picking up. Her and Berry are all wrapped up together. It could probably be cute, but I think I'm going to need a bucket soon if I have to endure this for the next couple of days."

She tilts her head to the side, trying to figure out the situation as Puck jumps into the boat, gesturing for Sam to get in when they both get hit in the side of the head with a snowball. Rachel and Quinn are laughing hysterically, ducking behind the corner of the wooden shack with snowballs wielded to their palms and Kurt's looking wholly unimpressed, perched on a tree stump and picking at his nails.

In some ways, Santana misses times like this. Times they used to have back in high school, before everything went to shit with Santana's family. Sure, it wasn't amazing, considering Santana spent the majority of her time alone when possible. But there were times - rarely admittedly - when it would be just the seven of them, laughing over wine coolers – since that was the highest level of badass they could get back then – and just having a good time.

It takes a few moments before she notices the silence coming from her… Brittany. She glances over her shoulder, suspicious and see's Brittany standing on the far side of the room, hand clutching the phone down by her side and her head tilted, focusing on something on the side table she's standing in front of. Santana purses her lips and turns her whole body, curious to what the blonde's looking at.

"Brittany?" When Brittany doesn't respond, Santana frowns and walks towards the blonde, reaching out with one hand to hover over the small of Brittany's back. "Brittany?"

Santana leans in slightly, taking in the full view of the other girl's face. Brittany's eyebrows are scrunched together, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed and fixated. It seems she's slightly confused, but there's something dark behind Brittany's blue eyes that makes panic seep into Santana's bloodstream. When she finally takes in the whole view of Brittany's expression, she looks down at the table and scans the contents of the table from side to side.

"Oh, shit." Santana tugs on Brittany's wrists and sprints towards the entrance with her in toe.

She stops only momentarily to slip on a pair of shoes, not bothering to check whose they are, and practically chucks her and Brittany out the door. With the blonde hot on her heels, she runs through the snow, with some difficulty and down towards the lake. Her head is throbbing with the rush of blood, her veins spiking with adrenaline and her feet are pumping in the same manner they have done for the last two or three times she's been running frantically. Since those two chases, her muscles seem to have adapted to the sudden movement, so if it wasn't for the snow, she'd probably be doubling her usual speed.

Up ahead, a good fifteen metres or so, Quinn's crouched down, pushing the boat off out into the water - with Sam and Puck in it - with her foot, and Rachel's standing less than a metre behind, clapping her mittened hands together and grinning widely. But these facts barely take any of her notice as she leaps over a stump, and tries to quicken her speed to get closer – she _needs_ too.

"Puck!" Santana screams, her voice cracking as she forces the words out through her heavy pants. "Get off the boat!"

Quinn turns, perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "We can't hear you!" She yells. "The motor's loud!"

Santana's eyes zoom onto the small engine motor tied to the end of the boat, nearest Sam and she almost faints from the rush of panic that surges through her. Brittany's close behind, her breathing and the snow crunching telling Santana this, and it kind of eases her – knowing that Brittany's safe. Even if Puck and Sam aren't.

"Get off the damn boat!" Santana directs her yelling towards Puck who's yanking on the string to start the engine. "Don't start it!"

Her feet are still pumping through the snow covering the ground, and if it wasn't for the jolt of adrenaline, she'd most definitely be freezing her ass off right now. The boat's about two metres away from the jetty, when Santana steps onto the creaking wood and she practically barges Rachel out the way as she forces her legs harder, pumping faster. She knows what she's about to do is stupid. Mostly because a) she's hurtling towards ice cold water, and b) there's a good chance that what she saw scribbled on the piece of paper on the side table, in the house, is actually true – in which case, means in about two seconds she'll not only be throwing herself at ice cold water, but also towards a rigged boat.

Santana spares a quick glance over her shoulder, to where Quinn's holding a worried, struggling Brittany back and then turns back to the moving boat. "Get away!" She hisses towards them, loudly, knowing if they don't, then they'll be caught in the inevitable explosion. Without another second, she reaches the edge of the jetty and leaps into the air, pushing off her left foot to add extra strength into her jump and is soon heading towards Puck and Sam who're staring at her frightened and wide-eyed.

She tries to yell something, anything to get them to move, but it's too late. The motor engine roars to life and instead of trying to find a safe place to land, she throws her arms out so she's mimicking a cross and ducks her head, taking a deep breath. Two seconds later, her forearms hit Puck and Sam in the chest, and they topple into the freezing cold water along with her, feeling the impact of the boat exploding pushing them deeper into the lake.

_Freezing_ and _cold_ don't do the water justice. The lake is numbingly cold. As soon as she hit it, she basically felt her body go into shock and the breath was sucked straight from her. She surfaces quickly, spluttering the water and feeling her body reject the sudden temperature drop. Luckily, she took an interest in basic survival when she was in the army. Despite being in a desert, surrounded with nothing but miles and miles of hot sand and sweltering heat, she decided to read the winter section of _'What To Do If…' _book.

So Santana knows that as soon as her body hit the water, it involuntarily plunged into cold shock – which would explain the minor hyperventilation, involuntarily gasping and rapid change in pulse. She also knows that she has about 4 minutes to find and pull Sam and Puck out of the water before their bodies lose all strength and co-ordination to help haul them out, and a minute to pull _herself_ out the water before she faces that same dreaded fate. Or, even less time if either Sam or Puck begins to panic.

Basically, she needs to rescue them _quickly._

"Q!" Santana splutters some water out and struggles to reach one hand out the water to brush away the hair sticking to her face. "Get the paddle!"

When she focuses, well, manages to force her eyelids to stay open - since her muscles are locking up - she sees Quinn scramble to her feet, covered in a light layer or snow, and searches the Jetty for one of the discarded paddles among the burning debris. Santana's ears are ringing from the impact of the explosion, but being in the army for two years, and witnessing her fair share of mines, car explosions and bazooka's, _that_ explosion is practically a walk in the fucking park.

Santana throws herself fully into the water, head and body under the water, fingers pointed and swims as fast as she can over to Sam, who's most visible since his dirty blonde hair is sticking up out the water, his pale hands flailing next to him. The water's freezing, almost so cold that Santana forgets what the hell she's supposed to be doing, but part of her military training was to put up with every circumstance – no matter the temperature. Even though she usually put up with blistering heat, it's still an extreme weather condition, so she manages to focus.

"S-Sam," Her teeth are chattering violently as she reaches him and grabs him by the collar. "L-lie o-on your b-back."

Sam's skin is pale, and his eyes keep rolling into the back of his head – clearly giving into the shock Santana's trying so hard to fight. When Sam doesn't respond, since she's not sure whether he heard or not, she knees him in the back, holds him up and with her free arm, swims back towards the jetty, kicking with her free leg. Quinn's standing there on the edge of the jetty, expression horrified as her shaky hands hold out a quivering paddle. Rachel's standing behind her, with Brittany behind her, all three of them acting as some type of support column, at the ready to pull in Santana and Sam. Her tanned hand latches onto the flat end of the wooden paddle and Santana feels herself being dragged in slowly, still kicking to speed up the process.

Santana takes a deep breath and manages to pull Sam closer to the waiting women, ducking under the water quickly to push his torso further out of the water so someone will take him. Luckily, Quinn, Rachel, or Brittany, she's not sure which one, lifts Sam up, and as soon as Santana blinks away the cold blur hazing her vision, she dips back into the frozen water, searching for Puck.

But he's nowhere to be seen. _Fuck._ Santana feels her stomach start to turn, and the urge to give into the stunning sensation tingling at her spine is almost too much to handle. She treads water, hoping that she's kicking with her numbed limbs to keep herself up as her head whips from side to side, searching for her colleague.

"Over there!"

Santana doesn't process who's yelling, she doesn't have time too. All she sees is a pale finger point over her shoulder, towards the right of the lake. Later, when she's back inside the cabin, she won't remember how she had to kick start her body back into action, or how her muscles locked when she tried to move again. She won't remember how she swallowed what felt like gallons of water, or how she nearly let herself give in to the shock as it crept up her spine and clawed at the back of her eyes. No, she won't remember any of that.

But she'll never forget the sheer panic that coursed through her veins as she reached Puck, who was lying face down in the water, unmoving. It was strange, not having Puck fight against her. When they were teenagers, he'd never be able to grasp that she was just as strong as him, if not stronger – and now dragging him with ease, and not having him struggle – it seemed that Puck was doomed.

It will always be burned into her brain how her breathing became shallow as she turned him over to see his usually tanned skin, icy and deathly pale. Forever will remain the screams she heard when she managed to swim through the broken ice floating on the water, and revealed the state of her once best friend to the three women standing on the dock, as they hauled Puck out the water.

But what will take her years to forget - if she even gets that much - is the way her name escaped Brittany's lips as her body fizzled and snapped into a rigid state, like rigor mortis just kicked in. She won't forget the way her blurred vision cleared, one final time, as a piece of slimy aquatic weed curled around her ankle, tugging her into a dreaded, frozen pits of the lake as all the strength seeped out her body.

She thinks that maybe this is all a dream.

Maybe the ability to last four days in the scorching hot weather in the Afghanistani weather, without a drop of water, will somehow compensate for her inability to survive three damn minutes in a freezing cold lake. Maybe the water that's covering every inch of her skin as her body sinks further and further into the water, that she remembers to be cold, but can't feel, is just some horrible dream she'll wake up from, sweating bullets and lying next to the perfection that is Brittany. Maybe the anxiety, anticipation and freaky wave of calm that crashes over her body as a pair of eyes carve themselves into the murky, green water before her, isn't real after all.

But no, it's not a dream. She's not going to wake up with a mouthful of blonde hair, a comfortable warmth in her arms and pressed against her chest as Brittany lies sound asleep, looking more beautiful than ever.

Because it's not a dream.

She _is _descending further and further into the deep pits of a watery, frozen hell. There is a pair of ghostly blue eyes floating in front of her amongst several weeds that have now joined her as she gives into the blackness creeping over her soul. And there's definitely the image of Brittany that forms behind her eyelids, curls into her soul and embraces her frozen heart as the last bubble of oxygen escapes through her now purple lips.

Because this isn't a dream, this is death.

* * *

><p>"<em>Puckerman! Get your ass over here!"<em> _Santana's 14 year old self screamed as she shuffled further into the couch in her den. "It's time to get our Xbox on!"_

_It was another one of those nights where her dad was gallivanting off through town, downing any alcohol that came into sight and doing God knows else what. It was safe to say that he wouldn't be back for the night, or if he was he'd sleep nicely on the front lawn. Santana was pretty sure there was a patch of grass with his body imprint on. She'd invited Puck over after trying to talk Brittany out of going to Breadstix with one of the newest Jock's that transferred from Carmel High, and ended up arguing and storming out her best friend's house._

"_Calm yo tits, girl." Puck sauntered into the den, clutching a pack of six beers in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. "We need to drink first."_

_Santana was skeptical. "Puckerman, I'm not going to sleep with you, even if you try and get me drunk."_

_He let out a throaty chuckle and slumped down on the sofa next to her, propping his feet on the coffee table and cracking open one of the beer. "You say that now…"_

"_Shut up." Santana jabbed him in the arm. "Now grab your controller, it's time for me to kick your ass."_

_Puck rubbed his arm, trying not to physically wince. "Damn, you've got one hell of a right hook."_

"_Yeah, yeah." She waved him off. "Now get your game on."_

_Half an hour of Call of Duty and four cans of beer later, Puck tossed the controller across the room where it landed with a thump on the floor. "You've got mad skills, Lopez." He stated, trying to act like he wasn't bothered by the fact she just kicked his ass._

"_I totally kicked your ass."_

"_On a game."_

_Santana grinned. "You're still a loser."_

_Puck stood abruptly, placing his beer can on the coffee table, and bringing his hands up to hide his face. She was pretty sure she sure him snarl, but decided to leave it. There's no way he could actually be taking this seriously. "Come on, show me what you got."_

_Santana studied him for a second, her eyebrows scrunching up in disbelief. "You want to fight?"_

"_Aw," Puck lowered his hands lightly, "Is ickle baby Lopez a scaredy cat?"_

_She giggled nervously, knowing the chances of actually kicking his ass physically was a hell of a lot lower than kicking his ass through a virtual character. But due to her being the stubborn ass she is, she jumped up too, raising her own hands, clapping them together quickly and then mimicking his position. Her feet moved back and forth slightly, as if she was taunting him._

"_Bring it, Fuckerman." Santana hissed mockingly, jabbing forward and missing his head by a wide margin. "Shit."_

_Puck then threw a punch, catching the underside of her jaw. She stumbled back, unprepared for the contact and clutched the injured area. "What the hell, Noah?"_

"_You wanted to fight." Puck tried to reason, his eyes darkening evilly as his smirked._

_Santana chuckled, trying to lighten the situation, but he just advanced forward. "Let's fight." She stated overdramatically, jabbing into the empty air playfully._

_Puck lurched forward first, his leg bumping the coffee table as his fist hurtled towards Santana and caught her in the arm. Ignoring the ache, she swung her right hand, catching him in the ear and causing him to yell out in pain. She giggled and stood back, admiring her work as he clutched the side of his head, stamping one foot on the ground as his face scrunched up._

"_Fuck!" He yelled. "You bitch."_

_It was only when he looked up through fiery hazel eyes that Santana started to panic. Up until then, she'd been laughing at him suffering against one single punch, but then, staring at him as he advanced towards her, shoulders hunched and teeth bared – she realised he was genuinely serious. And pissed. _Really _pissed._

_Puck flexed his muscles, and clenched his fists. "What the fuck was that?"_

"_You punched me." Santana pointed to her jaw. "So I punched you." She pointed to him and shrugged. "Fair game."_

_There was something incredibly dauntingly dark in his eyes. It was something she recognised. Something she saw in her father, two years ago, right before he raised a hand and slapped her so hard, the force of the impact knocked her over, cracking one of her teeth and dislocating her jaw. She could just imagine Puck hitting her for some reason. Never, until then, did she ever think of him as being violent, but with the same aggressive tint in his eyes that she'd seen in her abusive father – the doubts started to filter in._

"_What's going on?"_

_Santana whipped her head around. There by the door, eyes curious and brows furrowed, was Brittany. Puck's body immediately deflated, his shoulders sagging as he took a step back and tore the snarl away from his mouth._

"_Nothing." He growled, sitting back on the sofa and chugging back the remains of his beer._

_For that was the first time Puck had ever shown Santana his aggressive side. The side that he seemed to not be able to control._

* * *

><p>"Santana!" A voice screams. "Quick! Help me get her out!"<p>

Water fills her ears, her hearing decreasing as everything starts fading further into the blackness. She's trying to fight it. She's really trying. But it's not working. The dark is slowly creeping over her eyelids. The feeling isn't coming back and she knows this isn't going to end well.

Then again, she wonders why she's surprised. Nothing ever ends well for her.

* * *

><p><em>Santana cracked open her eyelids. She became remotely aware of the body lying half on top of her, the blonde hair splaying across her shoulders and the head tucked underneath her chin. <em>

_Brittany._

_Last night she'd kissed this wonderful being in her arms. Last night had been the first kiss she'd been looking for. Last night, she spent long hours on top of Brittany, running her hands up her best friend's side, lacing their fingers together as their lips moved against one another. Last night, she barely got any sleep, but she didn't mind that time. Usually the lack of sleep was because of her alcoholic father and his powerful fists. But last night, it was because she spent hours upon hours, marvelling in the feel of her best friend's lips on her own, her best friend's heart beating with her own, just kissing into the incredibly early hours of the morning._

_It had been evident for quite a while, since the whole Breadstix fiasco with Brittany going on a date, that Santana felt more – but up until last night she'd never fully accepted it. It wasn't her choice to fall in love with Brittany. It wasn't her choice to fall for not only a girl, but also her best friend._

_But it was definitely the best choice that had ever been made for her. She just wanted to stay there forever._

_All good things come to an end though, usually quicker than wanted. And today was that fateful day. Today was the day Santana was moving. Moving to Buckland, moving away from Brittany - moving away from the only thing she ever gave a damn about. Santana sat up in bed, gently rolling Brittany's body off her as she buried her face into her hands – wishing that day wasn't going to happen._

"_Fuck." She breathed to herself, attempting to rub the ache out from the back of her eyes._

"_Language, honey." _

_Her head snapped up. Mrs Pierce, June, was sitting in the chair across the room, the one Brittany used as a desk chair, despite it clearly being a chair that belonged in the lounge. That was Brittany for you._

"_Sorry." Santana muttered, tucking her knees to her chest and resting her chin on top. She wanted to know why June was sitting in the room, she wanted to know what her reaction was to walking in on her daughter and her best friend snuggled together, closer than best friends with their fingers intimately laced together and hearts beating as one._

"_She loves you, you know." June whispered, blue eyes flickering towards the sleeping form of Brittany._

_Santana shook her head, not wanting to talk about something she only discovered last night. "We're fifteen."_

"_I know." June agreed, picking up the mug resting on Brittany's desk and sipping tentatively. "You're still young, you're still naïve and have a lot to learn. But love is something age can't define, Santana."_

_The words sunk into Santana like an anchor on the beach. She could feel them curl through her body, seep into her bloodstream and aim right for the heart. It was undeniable. She loved Brittany, just as much as Brittany loved her. Even Brittany's mom could see it – despite Santana only working it out herself last night. "How long have you known?"_

_June smiled and shook her head. Carefully, she pushed up off the chair, placing her mug down and came over to the bed, perching on Santana's side as she placed her hands on top of Santana's. "A while, and I accept you Santana." She nodded towards Brittany. "Both of you."_

_Santana smiled, but she couldn't help feeling the dread, knowing that even love wasn't enough to keep them together. "I'm going away." She said, defeated. It was inevitable, and inside she was kicking herself for not realising what she had with Brittany, sooner._

"_I thought as much." June sighed, patting Santana's hand. "Your aunt called."_

_Santana looked up with quizzical eyes. "My aunt?"_

"_Yes, Aunt Clarissa." June explained, her eyes still darting between the a sleeping Brittany and an awake Santana. "You ran out your house yesterday, and she was walking the streets to find you. I was coming back from Seven Eleven when I saw her, and stopped since she was a new face to the town."_

_June Pierce was probably one of the loveliest mothers, and people, to ever walk the Earth. Santana swore that this woman didn't have a bad bone in her body, that it wasn't physically possible for her to do _anything _bad because she was just that damn nice. Not in the annoying way, where she was cheery and smiles all the time – but in the kind, caring way. The way a mother is supposed to be._

_And then Santana had an idea. _

"_June?" Santana's voice was shaky with nerves. "Do you think, I could, maybe s-"_

"_I already asked her." June interrupted. "Last night. She told me everything and I practically got on my knees to beg you to stay here, to live with us and stay with Brittany."_

_Of course, Santana's idea would fail. She wanted her life to be like a movie. At first she'd be the poor, deprived girl, abused by her father and left motherless. But then a knight in shining armour, Brittany, would come and save her from everything. The Pierce family would take her in, and she'd be cared for with Brittany until they were old enough to get the hell out of Ohio, and move to New York, or Los Angeles, where she'd marry Brittany and live the happiest of lives._

_But fairy-tales aren't real. They never have been. Just an excuse to crush every girl's dream and make money from it._

_Nothing ever worked out for Santana. Nothing ever had the happy ended she wanted. And if Santana's life was a movie, it was definitely a fucked up one at that._

_And that was only proved when Aunt Clarissa came barrelling in unannounced, scaring June, Santana and waking up Brittany in the process - before yanking Santana out the door by the collar of her t-shirt, and down to the car where she was shoved in with more force than necessary._

_At least in shitty movies, the actress gets to say goodbye to their love. Santana however, left without it._

_Because, you know, nothing ever ends well for Santana._

* * *

><p>"Santana." A sharp slap is delivered to her ice cold cheek. But she can't respond. "Can you hear me!"<p>

"We need an ambulance."

"Out here? No ambulance can get through the storm! It's a fucking blizzard!"

"Well we need to do something!"

"San." A whimper comes next. "Please… Baby… Wake up."

* * *

><p><em>Santana couldn't sleep. It was 3am, and she'd been in bed since 9am, since watching her father drink his life away wasn't exactly evening entertainment. Sure, she was only fourteen, and it'd been at least a few weeks since her dad has last hit her, but she was still scared he'd come barging through the door and go ape shit. But that wasn't the main reason. She couldn't sleep for an entirely different reason.<em>

_Earlier that day, she'd seen Brittany talking to Puck near their locker. Brittany was leaning against the wall, two rows down from Santana's locker and twirling a piece of her hair between her fingers. Puck had his hand planted on the wall beside her head, leaning in dangerously close. Immediately, Santana reacted, letting her mind let loose and body take over. Turns out, that wasn't the best of ideas._

"_Get off her." Santana snapped, wrenching his hand away from the wall. "She doesn't want you near her."_

_Puck raised his hands defensively. "Alright, chill out, Lopez. I was just talking to her."_

"_San-"_

"_No, Britt." Santana cut off her best friend. "I'm dealing with this."_

_Puck quirked an eyebrow, his eyes flicking between the two girls. Santana knew that Puck was hitting on Brittany; she knew that soon enough Brittany too would lose her virginity, like she'd done a few weeks back with Puck. But she didn't want the same horrible experience for Brittany that she had. She didn't want to see Brittany the next day, covering up the bruises on the insides of her wrists because Puck had been rather dominant in the bedroom. Well, that's what she was telling herself anyway._

"_Back off, Puckerman." Santana bared her teeth and snarled. "You won't get into her pants."_

_Puck scoffed. "You have no say in whose pants I get into, Lopez. I got into yours easily enough."_

_That hurt. Santana knew that sleeping with Puck would turn out to be one of the worst decisions of her life. But she was under the influence, after drinking six wine coolers and then agreeing to bang Puck on his sofa because she wanted it over and done with. Classy, she knows._

"_It's not the same thing."_

_Puck stood forward and smirked. "Why? She's too stupid to know any different."_

_Even though Santana had always referred to Puck as a best friend, she didn't know why. They'd hooked up a few times, they'd made out more times than she could count and they'd always have little jokes. But staring at him then, with fiery brown eyes and a burning urge to punch the living shit out of him, she could only see him as an enemy._

"_Don't," Brittany whispered against her ear, the hurt evident in her tone. "Please."_

_Santana unclenched her fists, breathing out deeply as she tried to wash away the red flashing before her eyes. The hot breath panting against her neck was enough of a distraction, and so she barely noticed that she'd closed her eyes and was leaning into the heat of Brittany's body behind her._

"_Okay." Santana breathed feeling fingers curl around her wrist and pull gently. "Let's go."_

_Brittany nodded and slid her hands down her best friend's hand, lacing their fingers together as they turned to walk away. They were about three steps away when she heard Puckerman._

"_She wasn't trying to leave last night."_

_And then she snapped. She ripped her hands out of Brittany's and came barrelling towards him, fists raised. Two failed swings later, and he had her in a bear hug, her arms being crushed beneath his grip. She could feel as he smirked into her neck and chuckled darkly._

"_You can't beat me. You've never been able to beat me." Puck whispered in that dark tone he used a couple of weeks back, back when she managed to hit him. "Don't start what you can't win, Lopez."_

_Struggling, kicking and screaming, Santana managed to push out of his grip and bring her knee up to his balls, where she delivered a hard blow. He keeled in pain, both his hands locking onto his crotch as his face turned red and eyes became bloodshot. Before she could catch it, Puck brought back his hand and slammed it against her cheek _hard. _Just like her father had done weeks before._

_Puck was being such an ass. She thought he was joking, but something was tugging at the back of her mind telling her the complete opposite. Why was he being a douchebag? Puck was supposed to be her best friend. There was no way he could be doing this just to piss her off. What the fuck was going on?_

_Two strong arms wrapped around her waist a second later, much like Puck's had before, but they were more familiar, softer and felt like an instant cool pack to her boiling blood. "Walk away, San." Brittany's breath tickled Santana's ear shell. "For me. Please."_

_Reluctantly, Santana took in three deep breaths and allowed her facial muscles to fall from their clenched, snarling state. Puck was on his knees, looking up from the ground with a satisfied smirk. He'd won. He'd got the last laugh, the last hit. And that pissed her off._

"_You're too late anyway." Puck smirked as he staggered to his feet. "Last night was fun. Right, Britt?"_

_Santana went cold. It felt like everything was ripped out from beneath her and she was falling, and this time Brittany was there to catch her. She wrenched away from her blonde best friend immediately, the words sinking in and processing. She turned and glared at Brittany with incredulous eyes and a saddened heart. It couldn't be true. Surely Brittany didn't sleep with him, she couldn't have. Last night she was studying…_

"_Don't lie." Santana hissed, her eyes darting between both of her best friends. "It's not true."_

_Puck grinned evilly and dusted down the knees of his pants. "I'm not."_

_Something sunk in the pit of Santana's heart. It couldn't be true. It _wasn't _true. But there was something deep inside of her, something yelling that it was. Slowly, she turned on her heel, feeling the weight of everyone staring finally crash down on her. Brittany was gazing at her with an unreadable expression, her eyes blank and lower lip quivering._

_Then it dawned on her. It was true. Brittany _did _sleep with Puck._

_Santana wanted to believe that she felt like her world was crumbling apart because Puck was _her _man. She wanted to believe that she felt betrayed and broken because she didn't want Brittany to suffer the same fate she did. But as much as she wanted to convince herself that, she knew it was a lie. _

"_S-San…" Brittany whimpered, taking a careful step forward and offering out her hands. "P-please."_

_And then she took off. Everything in her world started to fall apart, violently. Her chest felt like it was caving in, her eyes could no longer retain the tears, she could barely move her legs because of the emotional pain – but she had to. She had to get out of there._

_She could hear the light footsteps, belonging to Brittany behind her as she sprinted down the hallways; turning many corners until her feet reached the concrete of the school steps and she was outside. Her legs pumped faster than ever, her muscles straining against the push as headed for home - unbeknownst to herself, that that was the first time Brittany broke her heart. _

_So that's why she was lying in bed at 3am, unable to sleep. Everything had turned into a living nightmare. Her heart was physically pained, her chest constricting with every breath she took. How could anyone have expected her to sleep like that? With a broken heart?_

_Santana knew the remedy. It didn't come in the form of a pill, or a bottle of liquor, even though that would probably help. It came in the shape of a leggy blonde with stunningly beautiful eyes. The form of Brittany._

_Ten minutes later, she was clambering up the side of Brittany's house and sneaking into her best friend's bedroom. There was a voice, the voice of her heart she thought, shouting at her to turn back – that she couldn't take anymore. But she couldn't fight the inevitable._

_When she arrived at Brittany's window, she saw the blonde curled up in bed, hugging a small, black hoody that Santana recognised to be her own, just sobbing and whimpering into the material. Santana knew her best friend hadn't seen or heard her yet, so she took a minute to study her best friend. That's when all the resolve she had to be angry with Brittany, crumbled away._

_Brittany was clearly just as upset as she was, if not more. Her body was shaking visibly, her hands clenched the hoody so tight Santana could see the white of Brittany's knuckles pressing against her pale skin, and Santana hated it. She hated Puck, she hated sex, she hated love, and she hated emotions. She hated everything that was causing both her and Brittany to be feeling this way. _

_So without further ado, Santana climbed in through the window quietly, shrugged herself out of her clothing, until she was only clad in panties and a tank top and made her way over to the bed. Brittany jolted as Santana slid underneath the covers, but didn't turn over. It physically pained her to see Brittany in this state, to see her so damn sad and to be hurting so much – so much to the point that she couldn't even look Santana in the eye._

_Her tanned arms snaked their way across the space between them, pulling Brittany closer so the blonde's body was pressing tightly against her front. She let her palms settle on top of her best friend's toned abs, where Brittany slid her fingers through the gaps in Santana's hand, still whimpering and sobbing._

_It was long moments before either of them talked. Santana just spent the silence pressing soft kisses to the back of Brittany's neck, and shoulder, trying to calm her down. Truthfully, Santana knew it would be pointless even trying to be angry with Brittany, because it's not like she hadn't done the same. She'd slept with Puck herself, and yeah, she wanted Brittany's first time to be with someone special and that was good enough – but Santana didn't know of anyone like that to exist. Brittany was too good for everyone. Too good for Puck, too good for that jock she went on a date with, too good for Santana._

_And she didn't know that._

"_I-I'm," Brittany sniffed, pausing her sentence. "I-I'm s-s-so s-sorry."_

_Santana squeezed Brittany's hand. "I know, Britt."_

_Brittany turned in Santana's embrace, and inched closer until their noses were touching and eyes were locked. "I-I l-love y-you."_

"_I know, Britt." Santana repeated, swallowing against the lump that formed in her throat. There was a wall around her heart, she knew it. And Brittany did too. The immediate reaction to those three words was to run away, to make a Santana shaped hole in the wall as a puff of smoke followed her running legs._

_Brittany continued to whimper; sobbing heavily as she tangled her legs with Santana's and cuddled closer. Santana wrapped her arms tighter around Brittany, one underneath the pillow their heads were resting on, and the other firmly gripping the blonde's trim waist. Pale hands clenched Santana's tank top tightly, bunching it up as if she never wanted to let go._

"_I love you too." Santana whispered, pressing her lips to Brittany's forehead and then snuggling down._

_It was in that moment that Santana knew that no matter what came between them, they could overcome it. Sex with Puck was just the start, for both of them, it was the start of the chains of events that would forever change their lives. But no matter what, Santana knew that whatever event came along, they could get over it. They were strong enough and they had something that some people went their whole lives without having or experiencing._

_Love._

* * *

><p>"Santana?"<p>

"Please, wake up."

"Lopez, get up."

"San…"

Santana can pick out each individual voice. Rachel's, Quinn's, Puck's… And of course, Brittany's. The soft, harmonious tone of the only person that's ever really meant anything to her. The only person that ever weaved their wave into her heart and held on for death life. The only person that Santana ever loved, and still loves to this day.

She doesn't know what it is, but there's a small burst of energy that spirals throughout her body, and as she takes her last breath, her eyes open to look at that person. To look for one final time into the bluest, most beautiful eyes she's ever seen, to look at the most important person to have ever existed in Santana's world and to look at the woman that own her heart.

Santana wants to fight, she wants to be able to feel everything again, the crisp cool air, the smell of a freshly mowed grass, Brittany's touch… She needs to. The one thing that ever brought her happiness is fading away into the blackness. She can't die, she doesn't want to die. She can't leave Brittany alone without saving her.

But she does.

And there's nothing she can do about it.

* * *

><p><strong>I haven't read through it as it's late, so any mistakes are my own and I apologise if some doesn't make sense!<strong>

**Please leave a few words if you have time, it'll be greatly appreciated!**

**Thank you!**


	15. chapter fourteen

**I'm so sorry guys! I know this has taken long but I've been so busy recently! Exams, and personal things and just blah!**

**Anyway, despite actually having an exam tomorrow, I decided it would be a good idea to stay up and write this chapter instead of revising – not sure why, just did it. Stupid idea, but I'm sure I'll get over it.**

**Can I just say, holy crap, the response to my last chapter was amazing! I woke up in the morning with so many emails about reviews; story alerts etc. that I genuinely was astounded!**

**So yeah, this chapter is quite long, in apology for how I left the last chapter, and how long I left the update!**

**Enjoy guys!**

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong> After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her... Really, it was just beginning.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>Unfortunately, I don't own anything to do with Glee. Sucks to be me.

* * *

><p><strong>The Bodyguard:<br>Chapter Fourteen**

Every minute on earth, 108 people die. And ultimately, no matter how treacherous or enjoyable the journey of life, everyone dies. It's not a matter of _if_, but _when._ Some people seek death, considering it as their only solution as a release. Others try to delay the inevitable, through good health, drugs, or a deal with Satan if they're into that kind of thing. But still, others tragically lose their lives through time and chance – whether that be in the through disease, illness or just plain bad luck.

In contrast, some others, view death with the fear of the unknown. Some fear the process and the suffering that may accompany death. Others, racked with guilt, have a different type of fear – fear that they'll burn forever in hell. But whatever the viewpoint, feelings or circumstances of one's life – ultimately, life ends. Because of this unavoidable reality, every person at some point in his or her life thinks about the subject of death. _How_ death will occur, _when_ death will occur, _who_ you'll be with when death occurs and so on. But there are some people who live such fast-paced lives, that they never stop to truly consider such large questions.

Santana Lopez is a perfect example of one of these people.

Throughout her life, even though she's witnessed first-hand a variety of different deaths, some tragic, some gruesome, some gory – but still, she's never stopped to mull over those questions. Not even when she was lying in a bunk in the deserts of Afghanistan, listening to the fear radiating through every one of her colleagues as they dreamt an awful nightmare, not even when she was out on the front line, armed and ready, watching people, whether they be children, adults, friends, just dropping like flies because of a pull of a trigger, never did she ever take time to ponder upon the fate that life would inevitably bring her.

Many of the most powerful human emotions are tied to the cessation of life. The end of life can bring families, communities, nations and sometimes even the world, to a standstill. When a sudden or tragic death occurs, this becomes a time for contemplation. But what people never seem to consider, is the other side of the death, the contemplation that the people actually suffering the death, feel. Surely, it can never be confirmed, or written about – but the way Santana always saw it, was that moment, where the brain is slowly shutting down, the heart losing its pulse and the blood no longer pumping around the body, that moment, is a moment of clarity.

She heard the same bullshit that everyone talked about when discussing death, the last spur of energy, the flash of the life they lived before their eyes and all that other crap. But lying on the cold ground, with all the people that she loves in her life surrounding her, listening to their sobs as the remaining life she has inside of her, seeps out at a glacial pace – she doesn't have that flash of memories. She doesn't remember the long nights spent with Brittany, body's moulding together and lips gliding over each other in such a perfect, practiced rhythm. She doesn't remember the sullen look on her mother's face when she walked out of the Lopez household, and out of Santana's life. She doesn't even remember all the times she spent as a child, out in the park with her happy parents, living her life like any normal kid.

No.

Instead, she considers those questions.

_How_ did she think her death would occur? Truthfully, she always thought, well, she liked to think, that her death would come of a heroic gesture of some sort – like diving in front of a bullet, pushing someone out the way of a speeding car or something of a similar sort. That's what came with the territory. Santana Lopez grew up defending the people she loved, protecting what she loved and fighting for it. But no. Despite those wishes, she truly believed that she'd die from something awful, like the big C, or a mistimed step off the curb. Nothing memorable.

_When_ did she think her death would occur? She knows that one, without really thinking about it. For a considerable amount of time, she always assumed it would be due to old age, because somewhere deep inside, she always thought her life would end before she had the chance to experience the real adult stuff - like having kids, buying a house in the suburbs and living two minutes down the road from a damn Volvo dealership. But being faced with death, in this moment, staring it straight in the eye with an open soul – she can say that that's not the case. Undoubtedly, she knows she _will_ be old, and wrinkly. Just like the majority of people in the world.

And finally, _who_ she would be with when death occurred. That was one question she never wanted to face. Because honestly? The answer's no-one. No-one would be around when the light left her eyes.

That's why, right now, Santana knows it's not her time to go. She doesn't want to die in this way, or _that_ way for that matter. She doesn't want to live up to those answers, and die as a lonely old woman after suffering for years from a terrible disease. But she doesn't want to die on a dirty, cold ground in the middle of Alaska. So she's going to do what she's always done.

Fight.

The muscles in Santana's feet start burning, she can feel the blood slowly pick up speed, the slight breeze hitting her skin as the nerves snap back into action. With all the concentration she has, and with no physical change, she pushes back the daunting blackness, turns away and runs as fast as she can inside of her mind. It's too early for her time. There are too many things she has to do, to say. Most of which include Brittany.

So she's fighting. And fighting _hard._

There's a thick layer of blackness, trapping her eyelids shut like they're stitched down with titanium thread. It's exhausting trying to push the crushing weight off her chest; as it's pushing her further and further into the inescapable pit of doom. It's been exactly six minutes since she took her last breath and she's still struggling. It's like walking up a staircase towards a familiar room in the dark, and thinking there's one more step than there is. Her foot is falling down, through the air and there's a sickly moment of dark surprise as she tries and readjusts herself.

Santana's childhood consisted of her father's drunken slurring's about how she wasn't good enough, how she wasn't strong enough to be anything. But she's going to prove him wrong. She _is_ strong enough. Strong enough to fight for her life, strong enough to fight for Brittany. Strong enough to live.

This belief, this knowledge, stems from a quote she read one time, out a book she found in the murky, dusty corners of Lima's local library. It was one Benjamin Franklin who said it, and ever since the day she skimmed her fingertips across the crumpled parchment and read the twelve words printed in front of her, she knew someday, this quote would mean something.

'In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death.'

So simple, yet so complex. And now she knows why it stuck out so much, why it stayed with her for such a long time. It's only now that she can truly understand the meaning of it, well enough to say that it's complete an utter bullshit. And this is why:

If she lets the blackness devour her, not only will her life be gone, but the possession of Brittany's heart will too. That's certain. It sounds modest, but she knows she has Brittany's heart, because Brittany has hers. They're shared, twining into one because that's what soulmates are – two sides of the same piece. Even Greek mythology deems that we're originally created with two heads and four arms, and we're split at birth – condemning our lives to searching for our other half, our soulmates. And that's what Brittany is to Santana, that's what Santana is to Brittany.

Soulmates.

And nothing can contest that. Bar death, that's the only other thing Santana knows to be certain in her life. Brittany. Love. Brittany's love. And that's what saving her from falling off the edge of the blackness, and into nonexistence. It's how it's always been. Her sole reason for living _is_ Brittany – that's her certainty.

_Brittany._

The name keeps repeating itself inside of her mind, like a tape stuck on a loop. Her heartbeat increasingly at a glacial pace. _Thud… thud… thud…_

_Brittany._

Seven hundred and eight four seconds pass, with the name going over and over like a broken record. All of a sudden, something snaps inside of Santana, like a bright force crashes into her chest. _Thud..Thud..Thud..Thud_

_Brittany._

It lands in the pit of her stomach, zapping her like a bolt of lightning and jolting her into action. And then the wave of reality comes crashing down on her._.._

_Brittany._

The spiky chill of the wind; the almost unbearable numbness to her body that's strangely painful, and the seething pain clawing down her throat - it's all coming back. Her heart's rapidly beating, faster and faster, surging fast as her brain kick-starts itself and all the blood in her body speeds off. _Thudthudthudthud._

_Brittany._

Santana gasps, shooting upright into a seated position as her eyes burst open, ignoring the intrusion of the bright daylight. Water gurgles in the back of her throat, and she bends to her left, palms on the damn wood to keep herself up. She's leaning on the jetty, well that's what she thinks anyway and starts spewing up any traces of swallowed lake water - it tastes just as murky as it looks. She can practically feel the dirt sinking into her body, and it only makes her vomit more.

"Brittany." Santana manages to force out through violent chokes, her throat burning and chest throbbing under the intensity. Her vision is blurred and she's struggling to keep her eyes open, but to the far right she can see the slouched forms of six people. The world is spinning, but there's a loud throbbing in hear ears, pounding to the rhythm of her heart – which is beating like helicopter blades.

"Santana?" The voice is distant, but there's an intense need lacing the tone. It's almost enough to make Santana's heart falter again, but she fights it. She _is_ strong enough to keep her heart beating, to stay alive. Her father's always been wrong, and _God,_ she wishes he was alive to see this. Santana Lopez, fighting death - when her father couldn't. Now who's strong enough?

"Oh my God!" It's Quinn. "She's awake!"

A warm body, almost impossible to resist is pressing against her side within seconds. Santana almost laughs, but manages to look up at the blonde next to her, her eyelids rejecting the strain to keep them open.

"Santana?" A gloved hand brushes across her forehead, sweeping a few damp bangs to the side. "Oh my God!" Quinn pauses and shuffles, her arms hoisting Santana up so her back is resting against the top of her thighs as she's kneeled on the jetty. "Sam! Kurt! Get over here!"

Seven seconds later, another two bodies press up against her other side. She can barely feel the intense warmth of two arms threading underneath her body, one under her knees, the other supporting her back – it's like a branding hot iron, just out the fire. The world is spinning, her throat is scratchy and rough, and she can barely open her eyes for more than two seconds. Santana wonders where Brittany is.

"Get her inside! Now!"

The wind is spiking her cheeks, and she can't stop her teeth from chattering as she curls into the strong chest holding her body. Her fingers clench around the fabric nearest her hands as she tries to pry herself closer, but it's damp. Slowly, since she does not want to aggravate her throat any more, she inhales. There's a faint, smell of cologne… Familiar cologne. _Sam._ Sam's holding her.

Last time she saw him, he was out cold. Literally. His face was pale, his eyes struggling to stay open. Santana was helping him to stay alive. And now he's helping _her?_ How long has she been out? A warm, homey breeze greets her a few moments later, and she knows she's back in the cabin. She can hear Sam's footsteps as he walks through the house, and up the stairs, and she's only mildly aware of her body being lowered down onto the mattress.

But then it all goes black again.

* * *

><p>Santana groans as her eyelids flutter open as she slowly regains consciousness. Usually, it's the sunlight beaming through the blinds that wake her, or sound of footsteps, animals or something like that. But now? Now she wakes up because it feels like her body can't take any more sleep.<p>

The back of her eyes ache, her throat aches, just everything _aches – _like she's been sleeping for days. Slowly, she twists her head to the side, pressing her right cheek into the pillow as her eyes readjust to the bright green light of the alarm's numbers on the side table. It's 6am. Ever since she joined the army, she had to readjust to waking up early, since the job entailed early hours and long nights, but previous to that – she was by no means a morning person. Quite the contrary, actually.

She tries to lift her left arm, but there's a curious warmth pressing against the length of it, and now as she moves the rest of her body – that warmth is spread down the entire length of her left side. Her eyes flicker down, and on her stomach, she sees a pale, hand, the slender fingers of it, threaded through her caramel ones as they rest upon her taut abs.

It's Brittany.

The previous events come rushing back to her, and she gasps, wondering how everything's affected Brittany. Those few moments, where Santana died. _Fuck._ She _died. _All she wants to do now is reassure Brittany, take that crease away that's lingering between her eyebrows because Santana knows that Brittany's deep in sleep, possibly dreaming about something bad, probably what happened at the lake.

"Britt," Santana whispers. She fights the way her muscles rejects the movement as she brushes her fingers across the blonde's cheek, "Britt."

Brittany stirs beneath her, and Santana's stomach flips as she watches perfect lips part slightly, a wispy breath of air coming out slowly and batting against the underside of her jaw. It sends shivers throughout her body and she's pretty sure if she had enough energy, she'd be overloading with Brittany's adorableness, if that's even a word.

"San?" Brittany says, her voice croaky due to sleep.

Santana tightens her arm that's settled around Brittany's body, and strokes her fingertips where they lay between the blondes shoulder blades. "I'm here," she whispers, bringing her spare hand up to brush away another lock of hair from Brittany's face. "I'm okay."

She feels like she needs to reassure Brittany. She hates thinking that Brittany thought she'd lost her forever. Hell, if the positions were reversed, Santana would've completely broken down for those few moments of lost love, lost her mind and crumbled into a million pieces.

Brittany cracks her eyes open finally. "Santana?" she repeats, like the previous time was in a dream. "You're awake."

"I am," Santana smiles weakly as she cradles Brittany's cheek. "I'm fine."

The wideness of Brittany's eyes says more than enough, and Santana doesn't object as a pair of soft lips, cover her own with desperation. Brittany shuffles slightly, finding the optimum position so she can put everything she has into the kiss, all the frightened seconds and minutes of wondering what she was going to do without Santana. This is, of course, just an assumption of Santana's, but when she feels a salty tang of a tear slide against her lips, she knows it's definitely an accurate assumption.

"Are y-you sure?" Brittany gasps softly, as their lips part. "A-are you s-sure you're o-okay?" Her hands move across Santana's body, gliding down her arms and across every available patch of skin she can find beneath the covers.

If it wasn't for the situation, and the fact that less than twelve hours ago, Santana died, she'd probably have a hard time focusing on keeping her breaths shallow and not on the wandering hands.

"I was s-so worried about y-you, S-San." Brittany continues, sobs interjecting in her sentences as she throws one leg over Santana's hips to bracket them between her thighs. "I t-thought," she pauses, only to peck Santana's nose as the tears continue to fall. "You w-were-" once again, another peck, but to Santana's cheek, "I-I thought I'd l-lost you." She finishes by pushing her mouth against Santana's, hard.

Santana presses her hands to Brittany's cheeks, removing their lips from the desperate contact - because even though the feeling of Brittany on top of her feels _seriously_ good, it's distracting her from the psycho-maniac still parading around somewhere near, and enhancing the pain in her sternum from where Puck's forearm slammed into her when she tackled them off the boat.

"Baby," Santana whispers, her eyes frantically moving between each of the glassy, blue eyes. "Baby, I'm here. I'm fine."

It's like their previous conversation, when Santana thought she'd lost Brittany. It pains her to think that the anguish she felt, when she believed that maniac had Brittany, was probably only a blip to what Brittany felt after she stopped breathing. Her right thumb brushes across the bottom of the blonde's lip, relishing in the texture. It's been so long since she could fully appreciate every inch of Brittany, and staring up at the twinkling eyes looking straight back at her – she just wants to stay here forever, even if it's really counterproductive.

Brittany leans down, and rests their foreheads together, bringing one hand up to cup Santana's cheeks. "I love you," she shakes her head gently, "So much."

Santana sees the sincerity beaming down at her and it feels like a million fireworks just went off inside of her. She lets her hands drop, grazing lightly down Brittany's arms until they take place on her thighs, massaging gently in small circles. "I love you too," she whispers, like it's a secret.

It takes a moment, but she finally breaks herself out of her Brittany stupor and leans up, supporting her body by her strong stomach muscles as she presses their lips together. Brittany goes with the movement, shuffling back until she's sitting on Santana's thighs and keeps their faces secured as her arms snake their way around Santana's neck.

Every time they kiss, it still shocks Santana to feel how amazing their lips still brush against one another, like they never stopped kissing. Each kiss sends a jolt of electricity, even if it's just the simplest of touches, it feels like something swept her off her feet and catapulted her into heaven. Corny, she knows, but it's just the way Brittany makes her feel.

Slowly, she glides her palms ups Brittany's thigh, relishing in the feel of the silky soft skin underneath her fingertips. A moan comes from one of them, or it could've been both of them in sync, she doesn't know, but she's not exactly focused on that. Brittany slides her fingers through Santana's dark hair, grazing lightly at her scalp and clenching tightly to secure their faces together.

Santana can feel the need to go further, she can feel the deep pressure coiling in the pit of her stomach, she can feel her thighs clamping together tightly to try and relieve some of it from between her legs, and she can also feel how damn exhausted she is. Sex with Brittany is fucking amazing, like out of this world, and _fuck_, she _really_ wants it right now. But having been doing it with the blonde for God knows how long, Santana knows how much stamina she needs to perform, it's like climbing Mount Everest. That may seem a bit of an over exaggeration, but usually with Brittany, it's not a one-time thing. Come to think of it, it's only recently that they've only had sex once and then gone to sleep. Usually, well, it used to be sex, sex, nap, sex, nap, sex, sex, nap and then heavy make-out session.

So she pulls back after a good five minutes, a wet smacking sound coming from the separation of their lips after such a long time of being connected. Instantly, she misses the feel of Brittany's lips on hers, the taste that so gladly invades her mouth, takes over her taste buds and makes her mind feel so light it's like she's flying through clouds.

"Britt…" Santana breathes, her eyes fluttering open to glance up at the blonde above her, her golden locks hanging down as a curtain to block out everything around them. They don't need a physical curtain, when they're together, it's like they're in their own little world already. "Baby."

Santana's heart is pounding heavily, her hands are grasping Brittany's ass and lightly rocking their hips together, and _damn_, she really wants to just forget that not long ago she didn't actually have a pulse, and give into the intense throbbing between her legs – but her body just isn't up to it. But it's all good, because she doesn't even need to say anything before Brittany's leaning down to place a sweet, lingering kiss to Santana's lips, pulling her bottom one between her own and sucking lightly and then rolling off. Her body immediately curls into Santana's, clicking together like the puzzle pieces they are, and Santana almost moans embarrassingly loud as one of Brittany's hands slides underneath her top to lay lightly on top of her taut stomach, caressing lightly.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Brittany says, so lowly Santana almost doesn't hear. "I don't know what I would've done if…"

Santana hears her trail off, and feels the gulp as Brittany's throat moves against the swell of her breast. Instinctively, she snakes her arms around the blonde tighter, one curling over her shoulder and down to the small of her back, and the other resting on top of Brittany's hands on Santana's own stomachs.

There's still some hesitancy lurking in the pits of Santana, like it feels foreign to be able to touch Brittany in the way she used too, to be able to reach out and kiss Brittany, or lace their fingers together just because she can. It'd taken so long for Santana to adjust to _not_ doing it when she first came here, that for it to change within such a short time frame – it just goes against everything she's forced herself to learn.

But it takes no time for Brittany to twist her palm up and thread their fingers together; rubbing her thumb across Santana's knuckles, and suddenly Santana can breathe a little easier.

"I'm here, Britt," Santana reassures, kissing Brittany's forehead and causing the blonde to glance up so her breath is hitting Santana's jaw. Gently, she brings her fingers to cup the blondes jaw, holding their gaze so they look deeply into each other's eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Britt," she whispers, pouring sincerity and adoration through her eyes as the love reflects in her words. "As long as you still want me, as long as you still need me, I'll be here, by your side. Always."

They both stare at each other for long moments, gazing deeply into each other's eyes and seeking each other's souls. Now it doesn't feel like Santana needs to put up her walls to keep Brittany out anymore – it's just so damn relaxing to not have to put in every ounce of effort to protect herself, and with Brittany staring back at her, mirroring everything Santana's feeling – _damn_, it's so fucking good it almost makes her want to cry with elation.

"Always?" Brittany repeats, her voice still in a whisper.

Santana cracks a smile and strokes her thumb along the defined curve of Brittany's jaw. "Always."

At the same time that Santana tilts Brittany's chin up, the blonde reaches up to cup Santana's face and pull their lips together, tilting their heads slightly to find the most beneficial angle at this awkward positioning. Both of them know it's not a long kiss, it's just like the sealing on a letter, the words are right there and spoken, and now the kiss is needed to weld everything together.

They break apart, hovering close to each other's faces just to extend the flipping and fluttering of their stomachs. Santana's eyes squeeze shut, and she pokes her tongue out to swipe against her lip, tasting the last remnants of the delicate flavour of Brittany; her watermelon lip smackers, the unique sweetness that is like a drug to Santana – just _urgh_, everything about Brittany is fucking addictive.

Santana grins and lets out a heavy exhale of breath, leaning in to peck Brittany's lips again, and then doing it again, and then again, just because she can. The feeling of the blonde smiling was already there, and it only spurs Santana on as her heart feels like it's about to explode from her chest because of the overwhelming feeling of _something_, after all this time, inside of it. After all of that time she spent being empty, it's just unbelievable to finally be able to feel good about something, to feel Brittany inside of her emotionally once again.

Brittany captures Santana's lips one final time, sucking lightly on her top lip and gliding her tongue along it softly, before pulling back and resting her head against the brunette's chest. Santana can tell her own heart's beating a mile a minute, and she knows Brittany can feel it – but it's so amazing to be able to physically show how Brittany makes her feel, that she cuddles the blonde closer.

It's out of the blue, and Santana really doesn't want to ask to ruin the moment but it's lingering within her military muscles, within her natural protective instinct and she knows it'll bother her until she does.

"Britt?" Santana starts, pulling the cover up to cover their bodies. "Are Puck and Sam alright?"

She feels Brittany nod against her chest. "Yeah," Brittany replies, drumming her fingertips along the top of Santana's knuckles and caressing the rough skin from years of Santana kicking the crap out of either punch bags or people. "Sam gained consciousness and like snapped out of his shock, or whatever it was, basically straight away."

"It's because I saved him first." Santana utters, mostly to herself.

"Yeah," Brittany responds anyway, her forehead frowning. "Puck was still shaken up when Sam took you in, but I don't know much more."

Santana frowns in confusion, but then a small smile tugs at her lips as she knows why. But just for the butterflies, she asks anyway. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why don't you know much more?" Santana trails her fingertips up and down Brittany's side in a loop.

Brittany inhales deeply and slides her palm back underneath Santana's top, scratching lightly at the taut stomach. "I've been with you."

And then off go the millions of butterflies swarming inside of Santana. "You've been with me?" She starts, biting her lip to stop the spreading grin. "Like, the whole time?"

"Yeah," Brittany shuffles and looks up, pressing a lingering kiss to the edge of Santana's jaw. "I haven't left your side."

Santana pulls away, and glances down, raising one hand to brush a lock of Brittany's hair behind her ear and then she leans in, pressing a peck to the tip of her nose. They both crack a sappy smile at the same time, and the blonde scrunches her face, before returning to Santana's chest and pressing her ear tightly to the space above her heart.

"I could just stay here forever."

Santana sucks in a sharp breath and feels the warmth spreading all over her body, gliding down to her fingertips and through her toes. However she knows despite the sensation, there's still some fucker out there, ruining her moment, her reunion, and as much as she'd love, like literally _love_ to stay here, she knows they can't. Hell, she's probably even pushing her luck just lazing about here with Brittany on the bed. But it's too much to resist, and it's not an excuse, but she can barely lift her head.

But still, she settles for the truth. "I know, Britt," her palm flattens, and glides up and down Brittany's bicep. "I could too, but we've gotta leave."

"I know," Brittany sighs, knowingly. "When?"

"As soon as the sun goes down."

Brittany presses her face into Santana's shoulder and nuzzles gently, her lips brushing against the tanned skin. "Does that mean we have the rest of the day?" She asks. Santana almost interjects, but Brittany beats her and continues. "To sleep, I mean."

"Yeah," Santana nods gently and shuffles further down the bed until she's eye level with the blonde, her arm snakes around Brittany's waist and pulls their bodies together again. "But I need to make sure I've done all the security rounds, first. No-one's going out the house today."

Brittany moulds into Santana's body, her face burying into the crook of Santana's neck whilst her hands come up between them, resting over the brunette's heart. "Okay, but Sam already did them."

"Sam?" Santana jerks her head back, usually it's Puck to do the rounds.

Brittany nods. "Well, yeah. Sam said he wanted to, and Puck was kind of out of it when I last saw him," a pale hand slides up to curl around Santana's neck, securing herself in her position, "he was kind of insistent about it actually."

Brown eyes narrow, "He was?"

"Yeah," Brittany nods against Santana's neck, her lips brushing against the skin, "It was kind of weird."

Curiosity has always been a problem for Santana. When she was younger, she usually got in a lot of trouble for being curious, and seeing what happened if she did this and that. It was a burning urge of hers, which she never seemed to be able to push down. If a situation ever arose when someone said something, and didn't reveal much about it, or says every little thing about it, she was never one of those people who could shrug and walk away – not really caring.

Some would say it was her worst side, because the majority of the time when she allowed curiosity to get the better of her, she'd get into trouble. Like back in freshman year with the science lab fire that caused four fire engines to line the car park, and the whole school to be boarded off in case of toxic fumes – that was, even if she denies it, because of her. (Long story short, a Bunsen burner and a dab of Calcium Nitrate is a no no.)

But sometimes, like during her military times, she used the curiosity to build her intuitive side. Whenever she was curious, she made herself think over the consequences of possible actions, and considering the dangers laying out in Afghanistan – it was a bloody good thing. Otherwise she may not be alive at this moment.

For a few seconds, she thinks over what Brittany said, and wonders what will happen if she gives into her curiosity and ask outright what she's thinking. Admittedly, it's not going to be bad, because it's just her and Brittany, but the chances of the irrational question, would possibly lead to developing suspicious feelings and therefore a more guarded Santana. And considering she's just managed to open up to let the person she trusts most in the world in, becoming _more_ guarded would definitely not be a good thing.

"What are you thinking about?"

Santana blinks away her thoughts and looks around, noticing the sun flickering in through the gaps in the blinds. _Damn_, how long was she out? "Nothing," she says after a long silence, immediately regretting her decision to lie.

Brittany pauses for about two seconds, before pushing on Santana's shoulders with unknown strength and then throwing her leg over Santana's hips, straddling them. Her head cocks to the side, blue eyes narrow whilst her hands come up to rest limply on the hem of Santana's tank top, plucking it gently as she pinches her lips together at the side – like she's trying to work out the reason behind Santana's lie.

"Why are you lying to me?" Brittany asks after a long moment, biting her lip and looking slightly hurt by the realisation.

Santana's palms immediately find the blondes toned thighs, rubbing softly up and down as she searches her brain for an answer. When she finds them her jaw drops open as usual, like she's about to speak them, but then something happens. Something in the back of her mind clicks, and she shuts her mouth again with a wet smack, hiding the words before they can come out.

Santana wants to tell Brittany that she's suddenly suspecting everyone around them, watching their every move and studying every word that left their mouth – including Puck, Sam, Quinn and _damn, _even Rachel, the least harmful thing to ever walk this earth – and these four people are they few that Santana regards to be the closest to gaining her trust.

Without a doubt, Santana trust Brittany. More than she trusts anyone else. Even after everything they've gone through, even after the heart ache, the fights and tears, she still trusts Brittany more than anyone. Maybe that's why she can't tell Brittany, because she's trying to protect her. Maybe because she's trying _not_ to pass her insecurities and irrational suspicions over to someone who doesn't need them, especially on top of all the other crap Brittany's going through like unknown letters and highly intelligent psychopaths.

But, then again, maybe that's not the reason.

Maybe it's because, there's still a part of her, a tiny part, which still isn't sure how stable her feelings are for Brittany. How stable her trust is, how deep it runs and she really fucking hates it. All she needs in her life right now is certainty, and it feels like a stab of betrayal to even think that she doubts her trust in Brittany.

So instead of telling Brittany the truth, instead of allowing herself to let Brittany in more, she grabs the blondes hips and shuffles until she's out from between Brittany's legs and perching on the side of the bed, burying her hands into her face.

"I need to talk to someone," she says, lowly, hating the way the words burn her throat as if she's shouting. "I'll be back soon."

The whole expanse of her back singes as she feels the hurt flash across Brittany's face. It's like her skin is touching an open flame, and her brow furrows in reaction. She doesn't want to hurt Brittany, it's not even the last thing she wants to do because that would mean it's a possibility. It's just adjusting the trust she has for people is hard for her. She's so sick of people leaving her, so damn tired of people throwing her away like she's just that dispensable. Even though it's escalated from something as small like being suspicious of Sam, wholly, it contributes to the big picture of trust. One of Santana's many secret yet dark, fears.

"Okay," Brittany whispers, her tone just lacing rejection and hurt. "I'll be here."

And off Santana goes.

* * *

><p><em>They were at one of Puck's infamous house parties, filled with drunk dudes, even drunker chicks and so much alcohol that it would make a liquor store look under stocked. <em>

_About half an hour ago, Santana and Brittany had turned up, Santana immediately heading for the small table Puck had dubbed 'the bar' and started chugging down copious amounts of vodka and orange juice, with the ratio way off. Brittany had been hit on as soon as she stepped in the door, and reacted with a twist of her hair and cheeky grin, classic Brittany charm. _

"_Santana!"_

_Santana turned around; wiping the lip-gloss off her bottom lip as she found Puck, standing next to a blonde kid Santana knew to be one of the jocks, waving her over. Placing down her drink, after downing the rest, she headed towards the scrawny version of her best guy friend and the random big lipped blonde and smirked. "You called?"_

_The blonde boy didn't make it subtle as his eyes lingered up her legs, and over her chest – hovering at the sight of her pushed up cleavage in the tight black dress. Santana could see the drool reflecting off the light at the corner of his mouth and cocked her head whilst glaring at him._

"_Trouty mouth," she said, catching his attention. His eyes widened as they met hers, and a light pink flush crossed his cheeks. "My face is up here."_

_Puck chuckled. "Sam," he punched the blonde kid in the arm. "Stop leering, seriously, she'll beat your ass even if it looks like she's offering it out on a plate."_

_Santana wasn't entirely sure if she should be offended by that comment, but with the alcohol pulsing through her she decided to ignore it. "Whatever Noah, anyway," she turned back to the jock, "Sam? Is it?"_

_Sam nodded. "Uh, yeah."_

_Santana grinned and looked to Puck who winked and then moved away slowly, eyes narrowing and head nodding as if to say 'get in there'. She rolled her eyes and then stepped closer, examining the blonde guy as he cowered under her stare. It was pretty clear he had no game. Sure, he was attractive with the blonde mop of Justin Bieber like hair, toned arms shown through a tight, plaid shirt, and lips that could probably do a good thing or two, but there was something completely exhausting about him. Probably the neon sign with VIRGIN written on it, hovering above his head. _

"_Hmm," she hummed to signify her examination was complete. "I'm Santana," she offered out her hand and blinked her long lashes slowly, causing him to blush deeper and buff his chest out like his hand wasn't nervously shaking inside of hers. "Want to go upstairs?"_

_Sam seemed pretty shocked by her forwardness, but none the less, he nodded frantically and grabbed her hand, tugging her towards the stairs. But just before she could start up them, a hand wrapped around her wrist. She turned and saw Brittany looking up at her with bright blue eyes. The blonde's face was perfectly chiselled, her jawline mapping her face and her cheekbones pronounced enough to make her eyes seem cat-like. She was so damn beautiful that it almost made Santana._

"_Where are you going?" Brittany asked, quietly, like Santana had just kicked her._

_Santana narrowed her eyes and released Sam's hand. "Upstairs," she jutted her head backwards, motioning towards Sam. "With Sam."_

_Something punched her in the stomach, something she only knew to be guilt as Brittany's body deflated visibly. Santana's throat thickened and she inhaled deeply. "Sam, go upstairs and wait for me," she announced loudly, never breaking eye contact from her best friend. "I'll be up in a sec."_

_Without looking to gage his reaction, Sam moved away and Santana stepped down, eye level with her best friend. There was something flickering behind Brittany's eyes that she could quite put a finger on – but whatever it was, it was bad. _Definitely _bad._

"_Britt," Santana half-cooed,twisting her wrist so Brittany's grip loosened and then slid their fingers together. "What's up?"_

_Brittany's eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere that wasn't Santana. "I'm tired," Brittany breathed, "I just wanna go home." _

_Santana cocked an eyebrow and bit her bottom lip. "Why?"_

"_Tired," Brittany shrugged, eyes focused on their laced fingers._

_Puck sidled up beside them, clapping his hands down on one of their shoulders and smirked, "Ladies. What's happening?"_

_Santana shrugged him off with disgust. "Nothing."_

_Blue eyes flickered down sadly, and Santana instantly felt her stomach drop like she'd just kicked a puppy or something. Puck noticed and stepped in. "Yo, Britt," he clapped his hand on her shoulder, "Why'd you leave Justin? He was just getting into it."_

"_Justin?" Santana's ears perked up like her spidey senses were tingling. "Who's that?"_

_Brittany glanced up, expression apologetic. "No-one."_

"_That guy over there," Puck jutted his head towards the sofa where a muscular brown haired jock was sitting, his legs spread open and shirt unbuttoned as he lay casually against the back of the couch. His eyes were hooded and sparkling, just screaming 'I'm gonna get laid' and his posture pretty much said the same thing. "You left him hanging high and dry too."_

_Santana searched her best friend's face, trying to find anything that she could get a read on to explain why she'd left 'Justin' or whatever his name was. But those blue eyes were blank, expressionless and it made Santana feel uneasy to be stripped of her 'reading Brittany' skills – that was one of the strongest points in their relationship. She allowed her eyes to linger just that little bit longer, as Brittany stared back at her with the same intense gaze, like no-one else was in the room._

_Her eyes flickered again towards the tousled jock, who's mouth was half open with drool as his eyes fixated on Quinn Fabray's ass, who was bent over cleaning something up. Now as she got to take a better look at him, she noticed the blatant flaws about him. His teeth were crooked, and she was pretty sure one was missing. There was a thin layer of grease putting a matte shin to his dark brown hair, and his five o'clock shadow made him look like Patches, the local hobo. _

_She returned her attention to Brittany, who seemed flawless in every single way. Her hair flowing like silk around her strong, creamy shoulders, the way her very tight, short, black dress hugged all the right places and enhanced those delicious abs lying underneath the thin fabric. Those sparkling blue eyes that could light up a room, and the beautiful creamy canvas Brittany called her skin. _

_Compared to that _thing _over on the sofa, Brittany was a goddess. Compared to _anyone,_ Brittany was a goddess._

_And she sure as hell could do a fuck load better than that disgusting excuse of a guy._

"_Okay…" Santana broke first, eyes shifting to Puck who'd started talking. "Break it up, go get back to your boys," and then he walked away._

_They stayed there for a few more seconds, just watching each other as if they were both trying to gage a reaction. People brushed past them, drinks were spilled between them and the party atmosphere was still buzzing around them, but it didn't seem like any of it existed as their eyes were still locked together. Years of being able to get a read on each other, and suddenly it'd disappeared. Santana was curious, like, _really _curious. Her and Brittany had always found guys at parties and hooked up with them, only to escape the pits of the sex-hazed bedrooms to find one together and snuggle for the rest of the night. Never had the blonde ever had this reaction, and now Santana couldn't even find a reason for it._

_Well, apart from the obvious reason that people usually object to stopping others from going to sleep with someone. The 'J' word._

"_Sam's waiting for you." Brittany announced, breaking the silence as her eyes shifted towards the stairs._

_A laugh threatened to escape Santana's lips. Not because the moment was funny, because damn, it was far from it, but the whole situation was just amusing in some warped, twisted way. Jealously was never something that existed between them. Brittany was never jealous of anything Santana had, slept with and so on, and vice versa. Up until now, Santana didn't even think that Brittany knew how to feel jealous. The same couldn't be said for Santana, Brittany in some ways, was always one of her biggest insecurities._

_From the beginning of their relationship, Santana knew that Brittany was always the better one. During an episode of How I Met Your Mother, she'd found out that apparently between two people, albeit romantic, there was 'The Reacher' and 'The Settler'. _

_The Reacher was someone who reached beyond their looks and personality, and tried to date someone above their own looks, and someone who was way above their standards._

_The Settler was someone who settled for someone less attractive, and was generally a better person than the other. Their personalities, and all parts of themselves, were on a higher standard than the person they settled for._

_Despite them not actually being together, Santana knew there was a best friend version of it. No, she didn't know what it was, but she knew it existed. Whatever the technicalities, Santana always knew that Brittany was the settler. She could do so much better than Santana, reach way above her and get a best friend who deserved actually deserved Brittany._

_Their relationship had always been a long stretch. Santana being a girl from a broken family, using aggression as a defence mechanism and trying to ignore her daddy problems since she knew they were always going to fuck her up in the future. Brittany was the bubbly, happy-go-lucky cheerleader, with a grin the size of Britain and a demeanour so happy it made unicorns, leprechauns and pots of gold look depressing. There was never a bad bone in Brittany's body, and somehow she had one of those personalities that was difficult to hate – even towards the people who hated constantly happy people. Brittany's presence was simply entrancing, and so alluring that by the time a pale pinky hooked around her own, Santana realised her walls had been torn down and she'd found herself a best friend._

_One that would later become the best thing that ever happened to Santana's miserable, stinking life._

_Jealousy had become a routine part of their relationship. With Santana knowing she was hitting above her weight, having a best friend like Brittany, and she couldn't help but hate anyone that lay a hand on the blonde - whether it was a guy wanting sex, or a girl wanting friendship. Santana always felt that twinge of jealousy in the pit of her stomach – maybe the fear that Brittany would someday find someone better, and find out what she was really like._

_But this was the first time Brittany had ever shown any jealousy back._

"_You wouldn't want to keep him any longer." Brittany continued, her body half-turning towards the living room like she was debating whether to leave or not. "I'll see you tomorrow or something," and with that she went back towards the jock._

_And Santana turned away, heading up the stairs with a heavy heart just in time to miss Brittany cornering off, and heading straight out the front door, leaving the jock behind to his left hand._

* * *

><p><em>Sam and Santana had been dating for about three weeks when they had their first argument. Lately, the blonde jock had been kind of shady. He'd spend his Saturdays God knows where, his time after school at the same place, and at school he'd turn up with tousled hair, dark bags underneath his eyes and his cheekbones sticking out dangerously from his face.<em>

_Seeing as Santana was never the most caring person, she'd barely paid attention to the lack of attention from her so called boyfriend. Her weekends were spent at Brittany's house, cuddled up on the sofa, legs tangling, bodies pressed together and lame movie playing in the back ground as their eyes locked onto each other and breaths mingled. A few words would be spoken here and there, but most of it would be spent just staring at each other with no uncomfortable silence or awkwardness, which at first was strange, but it became easier as they continued._

_To most outside people, seeing Santana like this would be like seeing Rachel Berry give a solo in Glee club to someone else. But with Brittany, it was just normal Santana. Open, vulnerable, and naïve, but it was Brittany's Santana, not high school Santana._

_It was a Wednesday when Sam picked Santana up from her house in his pale blue Toyota pick-up truck for their weekly date. His blonde hair wasn't brushed, again, his skin was a shade lighter than it should've been and there was a certain hardness to his eyes. To most people, Sam would probably look tired, but to Santana she knew there was something deeper - mostly because Santana would sport the same appearance when her father would come home, drunk out his mind, wielding a bottle of JD in his right hand and a strong punch in his other. Except there was definitely something more… suspicious about Sam. It was like watching the transformation from a boy to a man, but Mafia style._

"_Hey," Santana broke the silence as they peeled away from the curb. "You alright?"_

_Sam turned and smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine, you?"_

"_I'm good."_

_The rest of the journey was silent, and they made their way into the cinema exactly the same way. A small conversation of in-movie snacks occurred, but then another good two hours of silence came along. They sat in the back seats, and made out a little, but Santana kept seeing blue eyes when she opened hers instead of the hard, green ones and felt the blonde hair between her fingers lengthening down to shoulder height._

_However during the movie, when they weren't making out, Sam's phone kept buzzing and he kept tapping a reply and pocketing it hastily, directly twisting his phone so the screen was out of Santana's eyeshot. When it happened the seventh time, Santana huffed and reached for his phone._

"_Who are you texting?" She whispered, her fingers dangling in mid-air to reach for the edge of the phone._

_Sam snapped the cell back, shoving it in the pocket furthest away from Santana and growled, "Nothing."_

"_Sam."_

"_What?"_

_Santana's eyebrows raised, she wasn't used to having people snap at her. "What is wrong with you?"_

"_Nothing."_

_The responses were short and blunt, and frankly, Santana didn't need this shit. She didn't really want to tear herself away from the warmth of Brittany's body in the blondes undeniably comfortable bed, just so she could put on a pound or two and be snapped at by a guy that was nervously fidgeting and snarling at people._

"_Fuck this," Santana yanked her hand away from Sam's tight grip and stood abruptly. "I'm going home."_

_Quickly, she spun and headed down the row, taking two steps at a time until she reached the double doors and pushed them open. Sam grabbed her wrist, and her skin buzzed underneath the touch in an uncomfortable tinge. Touching her was _definitely _the last thing he should be doing whilst she was pissed._

"_What?"_

_Sam released her and shoved his hands into his pockets, squaring his shoulders. "Why are you leaving?" His voice was slightly aggressive, and his stance only enhanced it._

"_Why are you being such a douchebag?"_

_The green eyes hardened further and Santana thought he'd turn to stone if he glared at her any longer. She swallowed thickly; ignoring the slight fear she felt for the guy, even though he didn't have any game and looked like he couldn't hurt a fly. But that was back when he looked innocent, and didn't look like he could break someone's hand off with a flick of his wrist. When she thought about it, Sam actually looked a lot bulkier underneath his baggy gym sweater and straight legged jeans._

_Santana knew sex changed people - and despite his insistence, she knew she stripped him of his v card the minute his hands shakily slid the condom on – but this was a bit far._

"_Whatever," Sam growled, stalking back to finish the rest of the film. "Are you coming to watch the rest of this or not?"_

_Santana shook her head and raised her upper lip, snarling slightly. "Fuck you, Evans."_

_And so she left._

* * *

><p>Santana approaches the bedroom door, hands tucked into the kangaroo pocket of her Columbus hoody as she stares at it like it's a three headed dog. Exhaling slowly through her nose, she sets her mouth in a firm line and hammers three times on the wooden panel, listening to the shuffling on the other side of the door.<p>

It's only 6:30am, so she knows the person she's looking for won't be asleep – mostly because she's pretty sure the woman has a regime that consists of intense dance work-out and vocal training – despite her dancing looking like just woke up from sleeping for weeks. _Damn,_ Santana's still a bitch even to the most supportive of people.

The door swings open, and Santana ducks her head, not wanting to see the woman's surprised face from her presence. "Hey."

"Santana?" The woman lurches into her hands and wraps her arms around Santana's neck. Except it's not the pair of arms she was expecting. "I'm so glad you're okay."

Santana pulls away, inhaling the floral scent of the woman's perfume. "Quinn?" she asks, stepping back to look at the door, making sure she has the right one. Nope, it's right. It has a stupid gold star on there. "What are you doing in…"

A blush creeps on the blondes face, and Santana smirks before continuing, "_Ah,_" she winks, "That's why you're in Berry's room."

Quinn cocks her head to the side, clenches her jaw and narrows her eyes all at the same time as if to say _shut up._ But there's a hint of happiness shading behind her hazel eyes and Santana almost reaches over and pinches her cheek to say _aww._

"Guessing you worked things out then," Santana nods her head into the room where there's a light coming out the open bathroom door, Berry's skin routine no doubt. "With the dwarf."

"Dwarf?" Quinn repeats, raising her eyebrows as she leans one arm against the doorframe, "Is that all you can come up with?"

Santana lets out a chuckle, which Quinn joins in with. "It's 6.30 in the morning; give me some time to wake up and I'll become more creative."

"Whatever."

The laughter dies down after a few seconds and Santana scuffs her socked foot along the hardwood floor. "So, yeah, why are you here anyway?" Quinn asks, not sounding rude, more inquisitive and curious.

"Just wanted to talk to Berry," Santana answers, quietly. "Need to ask her something."

"Santana…" Quinn warns. "Being mean to her when she's around is one thing, but actively seeking her out just too rip the shit out of her, at six in the morning too, is a bit-"

"No," Santana cuts in, surprising herself. "I seriously need to talk to her."

Quinn narrows her eyes and crosses her arms, her shoulder now leaning against the doorframe. "What's the catch?"

Santana shakes her head. "No catch."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

It's not really surprising that Quinn's asking so many damn questions. There's many reasons why it's strange that Santana's here. One being that the _Pezberry_ friendship never kicked off, sure they had a few laughs, but Santana has never really had the patience to indulge Rachel in her self-love, and spend hours listening to which Streisand song is better or how she'd make a kick-ass version of Funny Girl if she had the funds. Another could be that any conversation they had, bar their most recent ones, Santana would no doubt end up insulting the woman into next week and picking at any available vulnerability Rachel showed.

So considering Santana's standing outside Rachel Berry's room at 6.30 in the morning, asking to talk to a woman she voiced her dislike for many a time, and looking genuine – it must seem pretty damn strange.

"Okay," Quinn answers, still wary as she pushes off the door and brushes past her. "I'm gonna go cook breakfast. Rachel's in the bathroom."

Santana nods and steps into the room, ignoring the strong urge to bolt out, when a hand catches her. She turns, seeing Quinn staring at her with pleading, hazel eyes. "Please, try and be nice," Quinn says, in more of a question than a demand. "She means a lot to me."

The normal reaction to feign throwing up with two fingers stuck down her throat doesn't even pop into Santana's mind as she sees the adoration flickering behind hazel eyes, and it surprises her when a small smile graces her face and she nods in agreement. "Sure, Q."

Then Quinn walks away.

Santana feels uneasy being in this room, not in the nervous, jittery way, but because it's clear that this cabin has been visited several times before. Admittedly, she was expecting a hotel like set-up, with cups of tea on the desk, and two chocolate drops on the pillows – but by the looks of it, Rachel's been here before. It hurts Santana to know that there were times when Rachel, Quinn and God knows who else shared times with Brittany that she could never get back. Rachel and Quinn never cared for Brittany the way she did, they never loved her the way she did – yet they got to be the people that spent the longest amount of time with them.

How is that even fair?

"Santana?"

Santana's broken from her thoughts as she snaps her eyes up to see Rachel standing by the bathroom door in... Oh my God, argyle pyjama shorts. Hideous sweaters are one thing, damn, even reindeer jumpers are almost acceptable, but argyle? Not to mention it's _so_ high school, but seriously? _Argyle _pyjama shorts?

_Please, try and be nice._

Inwardly, she curses herself and bites her tongue, knowing there's a roll of insults she could just pour out. Apparently Brittany's made her go soft.

"What are you doing here?"

Santana shuffles her weight onto the other leg, "I need to talk to someone, and…"

"Well I did say we should talk, and here I am." Rachel interrupts, towel-drying her hair as she walks further into the room and sits at the desk.

Santana's heart sinks as she looks at all the various items spread across the table. Some of the designs on the random beauty items are a few years old, and it's only a reminder that Rachel got to spend time with Brittany that Santana couldn't. So much missed time.

"So, what's up?" Rachel asks, swivelling in her chair to face the mirror.

Santana bites her bottom lip. Talking to anyone, and opening up is strange enough, but throwing Rachel Berry into the mix? It's almost too weird to handle. "What do you know about Sam?"

Rachel jerks backwards, clearly surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Like, what did he do before he came here?" Santana knows from one of their conversations that apparently Sam did a few security jobs before coming here, but apart from that, there's not much else.

The shorter brunette picks up the hairbrush and turns in her chair again, twirling it between her fingers as she cocks her head to the side as if she's mentally questioning Santana. "Not to be rude," Rachel starts, motioning towards the bed for Santana, ignoring the ruffled sheets at the missing pillow. "But why are you asking me this?"

Santana looks towards the bed, shaking her head as if to say _no I'm good_. She would sit, but there's several inappropriate, disgusting images flashing through her head of what made that bed get into that state, and she _really_ doesn't want to be near any _Faberry_ sex shack. Her mind ponders of the question. Rachel has a point. She could've talked to Quinn, seeing as the blonde probably knows more about Sam, seeing as they dated at one point, and the fact that she seems to know freakin' _everything_ about everyone that even looked at Brittany – but asking her just didn't seem right.

Their relationship had always been a strange one. Between Quinn and Santana, there was definitely an air of best friends, not in the Brittany and Santana way, but the platonic, real way, but there was always some tension between the two. It was probably because Quinn never took any of Santana's shit, and said everything straight, and emotionally, Santana knew she could definitely talk to Quinn about all that sappy crap, but still, it just felt off.

And considering her search for Sam's previous records failed, Santana doesn't really have another go-to option.

"I don't really know," Santana says, truthfully.

Rachel examines her for a second. "Okay," she says, in truth Rachel fashion. "Anyway, back to Sam."

Santana nods and clasps her hands in front of her, moving further towards the desk until her butts resting against the top. "Yeah, back to Sam…"

But before the smaller brunette can continue, there's a blood-curdling shriek and a loud bang that Santana would be able to recognise anywhere. She used to hear it in the middle of the night, she even created that noise herself from a pull of a trigger.

Santana's body stands abruptly, spine rigid and fists clenched as Rachel drops the brush and it lands with a clang on the desk top. A high pitched tone sounds inside of Santana's ear and she barely functions as Rachel gasps and all the blood drains out of her face, recognizing the ear-piercing screech.

Rachel nearly falls over, scrambling off the floor with her hands pawing at the wood as her legs lead her out the bedroom door with Santana in pursuit.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed.<strong>

**Please review if you have time! Thanks!**


	16. chapter fifteen

**I know it's been a long wait and I'm sorry! But here's a long chapter as a sorry!**

**It's late, so all the mistakes are mine seeing as I haven't read through it yet!**

**But just heads up - it will probably get a little confusing later on, so just remember that _italics _are memories or bits from previous chapters!**

**But please, enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Title: <strong>The Bodyguard [Chapter Fifteen]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing.  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>12.5k

* * *

><p>It's exactly what Santana <em>didn't <em>want to see, but _exactly _what she expected as she watches Rachel drop to the floor on her knees with a strangled groan and streaming eyes.

There's Quinn, lying on the floor, her body convulsing and face paling as the impact of the bullet through her left lung kicks in. It's horrific, utterly devastating to watch the pure torture etch itself across Rachel's face. Sure, she's always been a good actress, but there's no way in hell she's _that_ good. This is real pain. Real, crush your heart, terrified for the love of your life pain that contorts her face in such a way that Santana almost doesn't recognise the small brunette.

Sam bursts through the sliding doors, gun raised with Puck flanking him to the right, in the same armed manner. Both their faces drop simultaneously, along with their A Team like approach to the situation as Quinn comes into their view.

For once, it's no longer like everything's happening slowly. Everything dramatic that's happened to Santana so far has basically been in some weird slow motion effect, but now, watching the frantic movements of everyone around her – it's like someone's pressed fast forward on the life remote.

The first thing Jesse St. James taught her was in one of these fast-paced situations, to close her eyes and breathe deeply, allowing everything to just quieten for a millisecond so she could get her bearings. And despite the reluctance to listening to that ass-wipe of a man, she does it.

When her eyes open, Rachel's still on the floor, cradling Quinn in her arms and weeping over the body that's sucking in sharp breaths of air, and struggling to do so at that, Sam and Puck are standing by the door in shock, their mouths agape and eyes wide like they just walked onto a crime scene, and Brittany's brushing past her, face flushed and panic evident in her expression.

Then her reactions kick in.

"Puck, call 911, now," Santana demands, her body darting towards Quinn to kneel next to Rachel, "Sam, get some towels."

Within two seconds, Sam throws two white towels towards Santana, who frantically grabs them, her fingers getting caught up in the linen as she leans up to look into Quinn's eyes, trying to find them as they roll into the back of her head. Two of her fingers pressed into the blondes ghostly white cheeks, securing her head so she doesn't whip it from side to side and cause damage.

This moment reminds Santana of when Matt was shot. When she knelt on the desert floor, with his dying body in her arms, trying to figure out what she could've done to make sure the situation didn't happen. But she couldn't. Only a psychic could've predicted this, and even then, it probably couldn't have been avoided. It doesn't feel like that though. There's a pang of guilt the size of America inside her chest, strumming like a guitar against her feelings and making her feel like she wants to punch herself for not being able to do anything. For not being able to protect the people she loves, because that's her fucking job.

As she stares down at the blonde, her hands bloodying paling cheeks, she wonders what the hell she could've done. Maybe if she'd done a round of the… Wait. _Sam._

"EVANS!" Santana yells, her blood boiling in her veins. "GET THE FUCKING TOWELS!"

Two seconds later, a body slides across the floor and bumps into her side. White linen towels drop beside her thigh and she hastily grabs one, shooting Quinn an apologetic expression which the blonde misses seeing as she can't even see straight, and Santana presses the towel to the seeping wound. _Hard._

Quinn lets out a high pitched scream, a painful screech that makes Santana want to cry because she knows she's causing it. Yeah, she's killed and hurt a lot of people before, but they weren't her _friends._ They weren't people she grew up with. And doing this to someone who she considers her best friend is pure torture. But it's for the best.

"Q, stay with me," Santana chants over and over, one palm still cupping a bloodied cheek and the other pushing down on the towel, "Stay the fuck with me, Fabray. You're not getting off that easy."

Rachel's still half-underneath Quinn's body, cradling her so tightly it's like she never wants to let go. Santana can see the sheer torture inside of the smaller brunettes eyes and knows that if… _Fuck,_ she doesn't even want to think this. She knows that _if_ Quinn dies… Rachel will see it and won't let go. And Santana doesn't think she can do that to her, even if it is _Berry._

"Rachel." Santana's voice is serious and she can feels all eyes snap towards her, except the ones she needs. "Rachel, look at me."

But Rachel doesn't look away, her fingers are clenching the lapels of Quinn's shirt and tears are continuously pouring out of her eyes as they're locked onto the slowly dying body of her love. Heart wrenching is probably an understatement if describing what it's like to watch this much pain in the form of a person.

Fleetingly, Santana wonders if this is what looking at her felt like back when Brittany left.

"Berry," Santana half-yells, "Rachel, honey," the term of endearment snaps Rachel out and brown eyes flicker towards Santana, "I need you to do something for me."

Puck slides back in the room at that moment, and Santana inwardly curses him seeing as she _just_ got Berry's attention. "The ambulance will be here in 5."

"Helicopter?" Santana's eyes never leave the towel as she flips it, revealing the amount of blood Quinn's losing.

"Yes."

Santana nods in approval before turning her attention back to Rachel who's staring at her with a pain filled expression. "S-S-Sa-"

"Rachel," she tries again, "I need you to do me a favour."

Rachel's brown eyes flicker from Santana to Quinn's still convulsing body as she runs a bloodied hand across her face, clearing some of the tears just as they're replaced by fresh ones. "Y-Y-Yeah."

Santana knows that if she was asked this question, and was in Rachel's position, there would be no way in hell she'd agree to it – but there's something in Rachel's eyes that almost plea for Santana to ask this, to ask this of her. "I need you to go with Brittany, Puck and Kurt," her eyes flicker to Brittany who's standing like a carved stone statue about a metre away from them, "And I need you to start driving to the hospital."

Rachel sucks in a few shaky breaths. "I-I-I c-ca-can't l-l-l-eav-"

"Yes, Santana interrupts, keeping her voice steady but knowing inside that this may be the last time Rachel see's Quinn still breathing. The thought just tears her apart. "You can, and you need too. They won't let you in the helicopter and by the time you get there, we'll be there."

She needs someone, and right now Sam seems like the only one she can actually have there. Not to mention she needs to question his ass about the security rounds he obviously didn't do a good job of. Then again, that probably wasn't a good idea. The chances of her ending up kicking the shit out of him for not doing his job properly are high, but seeing as they're going towards a hospital anyway – it's kind of like fate talking.

Reluctantly, but slight thanks flashing in her brown eyes, Rachel nods frantically and is slowly hoisted up by Kurt and Brittany who are almost as pale as Quinn's body.

Santana doesn't look up as they half-drag Rachel out the door. If she meets Brittany's eyes she knows she'll be like an open book – and she knows from way too much experience, that a gun wound like this, and survival definitely clash. In other words, she knows Brittany will be able to tell that Quinn's chances of living from this shooting is very dim.

She can't put that burden on Brittany.

* * *

><p>The helicopter arrives, landing on the small car park where the SUVs were parked about seven minutes ago – now she's glad she told the others to leave - and the EMT's quickly whisk Quinn away. Santana's insistent on them taking her, and with a snarl and her HBIC scowl, they only oblige since the time is slowly ticking away. Sam looks at her quizzically and then nods as she mouths <em>garage<em> and _bike _to him. Brittany's dad was always a motorcycle enthusiast – from Harley's to Suzuki's, and even to the bike Steve McQueen used to get away in _The Great Escape – _so the chances of there being some type of two wheeled transportation in the dingy garage is pretty high.

It only takes nine and a half minutes to get to the nearby hospital, which turns out to be pretty big considering they were in the middle of freakin' nowhere, and lands on top. Several doctors rush out, dressed in a variety of different scrubs and immediately tend to the still quaking blonde, who is now as white as bone.

The chances aren't looking too good.

Santana clambers out the helicopter when the last of the doctor disappears behind the metal doors with Quinn's trolley, and looks down to her hands. It's been so long since her hands have been covered in blood that she almost has the same reaction as the _actual _first time – which included her piling her hair on top of her head and emptying her stomach contents onto the desert sand.

That mix was hard to get off her combat boots.

Still not really aware of what the fuck is going on, and feeling her body still in half-shock, she drags herself across the roof, opening the metal door with her bloody hands and taking the stairwell. The elevator's there, but she needs to walk off her shock. If anyone should be prepared or strong for this, it should be her. No-one else has had to deal with this in their past, and she has – therefore it's kind of like her duty to have foreseen it.

* * *

><p>Santana checks her watch.<p>

8am.

She's been here for half an hour, head hanging in between her still bloody hands whilst she waits for any news on Quinn. None of the rest of the crew has arrived, which makes sense seeing as the drive is about forty five minutes, according to Google maps, but she wishes they could've just flown her too.

It's like her thoughts are torturing her.

"Santana?" The rushed, panicked voice comes from Rachel Berry, who's frantically running towards her with red, swollen eyes and disarrayed hair. "Santana is she okay? Where is she? What's going on? Tell me!" The words come out like rapid fire, swirling together to form one large, inquisitive sentence.

Santana stands, holding her hands out as if to say _stop and calm the fuck down _and putting the most calming expression on her face. Rachel slows slightly, but her eyes are still wide and frenzied like she's just come out of a horror movie or something. Santana kind of thinks to her it _is _like a horror flick.

"She's in surgery. They've taken her down to theatre 12 and they've been working on her for half an hour."

Rachel doesn't stop peering over Santana's shoulder or looking around the corner and into various rooms, like Quinn's just going to pop up there all cheers and smiles. "Where is she?"

"Rachel," Santana breathes in then out, a fleeting worry passing through her mind to where the hell the rest of them are, "You need to calm down, she's going to be fine, the doctors said she's going to live."

Considering Santana pretty much used to take the Queen dense title every year, when she steps forward and wraps her arms around Rachel's sobbing frame, she shocks herself. It goes against basically every instinct hardwired into her body, and maybe it's because she can't imagine being in Rachel's position, or because her eyes flicker above the smaller brunettes head to see Brittany standing at the end of the hall – wringing her wrists and not quite knowing what to do – but she only embraces tighter and shuffles over towards the hard, plastic chairs she was occupying not only a minute ago.

Whimpers and intense sobs come out of Rachel's frame, her alright petite body feeling smaller and more fragile than ever as she breaks down in Santana's arms. They've had their problems, they've had their arguments and Santana takes joy in insulting the small brunette, but recently, it's like they've both grown up and learned to accept each other. Truthfully, if it wasn't for Rachel, the Santana probably wouldn't have ever started to open up – and therefore may not have ended up with Brittany.

Although she'd never say that to Rachel – I mean, _hello? _Ego boost?

"She's going to be okay," Santana cradles Rachel's skull in her hand, rocking back and forth whilst locking eyes with Brittany. "Everything's going to be okay." She's not sure if she's trying to convince herself or Rachel.

Sometimes she wishes she wasn't such a pessimist.

* * *

><p>Four and a half hours later, Dr Watson, the guy who told Santana Quinn was in surgery, comes stalking out one of the doors in a pair of green scrubs, a mouth protector and bloodied gloves. Immediately, the worst snaps into her brain and she wonders how she's going to deal with Rachel.<p>

But a smile crinkles the corners of the doctor's dark brown eyes, and a wave of relief rushes through Santana. Judging by that reaction, the news can only be good.

"Miss Lopez, I believe you brought in Miss Fabray?"

Santana nods, and then shakes her head. "Well I did, but this is her girlfriend," she motions towards Rachel who's staring at the doctor with such a horrified expression that it's like the guy's about to tell her whether her world no longer exists. The others are down in the empty waiting room after coming back from the cafeteria. It's pretty dead in the hospital, excuse the pun, and there's only a few nurses around. Pretty strange, but then again Santana's used to small, crowded rooms filled with amputees and screaming men begging for morphine because there's four inches of shrapnel lodged into their legs – so a secluded hospital out in Alaska is a huge change.

"This is who you need to talk too," she finishes, cocking her head towards the woman next to her.

Rachel's head turns, and Santana sees the silent _thank you_ since the sobs are preventing vocalisation. Santana nods, smiles sadly and then pats the other woman's hand, which is still tightly clenched around her own, before standing and heading down the hall, hearing the same sympathetic tone all the medics used to use back in Afghanistan - mostly serious, but a little condescending. Then again, she thinks that tone is way better than the dumbed down one used when trying to put '_your loved one is in the morgue' _politely and nicely. Santana's heard that one _way _too many times.

She doesn't know what's got into her, but it's like she can't face going back to Brittany and the others. It's like she's ashamed that she couldn't do her job. There's a heavy feeling inside her gut telling her that she's failed – that she couldn't do the one thing she was _hired _to do because of various distractions. Because she wasn't strong enough or skilled enough to protect the ones she loved. Sure, her job didn't entail watching out for Quinn, Rachel, Kurt, Blaine and all that lot – but whereas at first it felt like a duty of hers, somewhere along the line it transformed into a need, a defensive instinct that she needed to fulfil because she's finally letting people into her life. Finally letting herself love the people who are her family.

And she failed.

Santana reaches the end of hallway, her face scrunching up as frustration builds a wall of tears behind her eyes. She can feel disappointment and failure flush through her body and she can't do anything but feel it. It's a fucking horrible feeling and there's nothing she can do. She reaches inside her jacket, fumbling around for her cell when she finds nothing.

_Damn,_ she must have left it at the house.

It makes her feel vulnerable when she realizes that yeah, they may be in a hospital, but that doesn't mean this fucking psycho isn't around. That doesn't mean they're safe, any of them. The awareness of the lack of possessions on her, like a gun, or even a damn Taser sinks in and she feels her knees buckle.

The first door she finds she pushes it open, stumbling inside until her hands find the first stable object in reach. Luckily, the door she enters is a bathroom, and not some poor patient's death space. She doesn't need to add extra guilt onto the bone-crushing weight of it she already feels. Her legs feel like Jell-O when the top half of her body sags involuntarily - her head hanging down and shoulders up, palms on either side of the counter whilst her eyes are trained on the silver plughole of the sink.

Santana can feel her body giving up the fight and the events building up over the past few months finally strike her – overwhelming her senses and restrains until she can't block them out anymore. Her face scrunches up as feels the tears well, blurring her vision and suddenly each of her ragged breathes are like helicopter blades in her ears. Everything's too much and it feels like she's sinking, with no way of getting out.

Something grabs her shoulders, spins her around until her butts resting against the edge of the sink and then warm arms wrap around her neck, burying her face into a neck. She doesn't need to open her eyes to know who it is, she doesn't even need to see them because the heart-warming scent that fills her lungs is enough to tell and show her it's Brittany.

She doesn't even both trying to struggle against the embrace, instead, she lets all her walls crumble and hugs Brittany's body closer to hers, widening her legs the smallest bit so their bodies can mesh together until no-one can tell where one ends and one begins. She lets her eyes close against Brittany's neck and takes deep breaths to try and steady herself, because there's no way she can ever find a resolution or finish this thing whilst she's a train wreck. Train wreck's never did anyone any good, and Santana knows that only too well.

There are no spoken words, just feelings and gentle caresses that speak louder than any volume known to man. It's enough for Santana to let the tears fall, to let herself go and feel Brittany save her – wrap herself around Santana's heart and hold her together because that's what they do. She desperately needs Brittany, she needs her more than she's ever needed anyone else before and while that may still scare the crap out of her, she knows that when she can't be strong, Brittany will be it for her.

Because that's how they are. That's how they've always been. And that's how they'll always _be._

* * *

><p>"<em>Te amaré hasta el fin del mundo."<em>

_Brittany scrunched up her nose, hands tucked underneath her face as she lay with her body pressed to the black sheets, hair cascading down the long expanse of her naked shoulders back. The blue in her eyes sparkled brighter than ever as Santana stared, head propped up in her palm, finger trailing down the dipped line in her girlfriend's back until it hit the sheet covering the curve of Brittany's ass when it started another loop. Pure adoration twinkled in Brittany's eyes and it makes Santana catch her breath, and wonder how in the hell she got that lucky. _

"_You're staring," Brittany whispered, shuffling closer until the side of her body was pressed up against the front of Santana's, "Again."_

_Santana smiled despite the embarrassment, "Can't help myself," she ran a finger along the line of Brittany's eyebrow, "You're kind of pretty."_

"_Kind of?" Brittany arched an eyebrow with mocked challenge in her tone and a wide grin. She pressed a hand to Santana's shoulder and pushed her back before sliding her naked body on top, feeling their bodies mould together like puzzle pieces._

_Santana sucked in a deep breath, eyelids fluttering shut as she grazed her palms down the side of Brittany's ribs, receiving a shudder that shot straight to her heart. A giggle filled her ears and she took another second before opening her eyes, and gazing up at the most beautiful person in the entire world staring back at her. She ran her tongue along her lips, whilst a finger brushed back a fallen lock of golden hair – blue eyes still gleaming down at her. It was seriously hard to concentrate when she had Brittany's body pressed against her._

"_Maybe that's an understatement," Santana breathed, feeling a strong thigh brace either side of her hip. "Beautiful would be more fitting."_

_Brittany grinned. "You're such a sap."_

"_Not my fault you do this to me," Santana responded, dropping her hands to slide under the sheets and rest a top of pale thighs. "You're the sap-maker."_

_Brittany ducked her head, rubbing her nose up and down Santana's throat; peppering feather light kisses to the skin before working her way up a tanned jawline. "Sap-maker, yeah?" she teased, her lips a hairs breadth away from Santana's._

"_Of course," Santana arched her neck, readying her lips for a kiss when Brittany nudged her nose with her own and abruptly sat up, the sheet dropping from around her hips down to mid-thigh, revealing her toned abs, perfect breasts, luscious hipbones that Santana want to run her tongue along and creamy thighs. God, Santana knew she'd ever get over how amazingly beautiful her girlfriend is._

_But it still didn't stop Santana's face from contorting into a pout. She wanted a kiss. "Hey," she squeezes Brittany's waist, "Tease."_

_A heavenly giggle comes from the blonde. "Sorry, did you want something?"_

_Santana shook her head, pulling on Brittany's waist for support until she could shuffle up the bed, sitting whilst her back propped up against the headboard – with Brittany still straddling her lap. "Don't make me beg," Santana whined, forcing her pout further but destroying it when a massive grin took over her face._

_Brittany's hands slid down Santana's chest, before grazing up her own, brushing over her breasts and up to her hair, where she twisted it and held it into a high bun on top of her head. "Hmmm," she pondered, tapping her chin with a finger on her free hand, "Nah."_

_Santana smiled in response before leaning up to nuzzle her nose into the crook of Brittany's neck. "You don't wanna kiss me, baby?"_

"_Nah," Brittany giggled, "I'm good."_

_Santana shook her head, muffling a whine into pale skin as her lips brushed against it lightly. A shiver came from the body on top of her and she ran her hands up Brittany's back, "You're gonna regret saying that when I'm gone." Brittany stiffens, her whole body freezing like she's just been slushied. Santana pulls back, eyes quizzical as she stares up at her girlfriend. "Britt?"_

"_You're going somewhere?" The words came out as half-stutters._

_Santana narrowed her eyes, shaking her head slowly with a smile creeping up on her lips, "No…"_

_Brittany's body relaxed, her whole body sagging into Santana's as she let out a long exhale. "Then don't say that," she frowned, retracting her arms from around the other woman's neck and crossing them as she sat back on Santana's lap – no longer arching her body into the other. "It's not funny."_

"_Are you mad?" Santana traced her finger along Brittany's hairline, pushing back the stray piece of hair._

"_No."_

_A grin came across her face, "Britt…"_

"_No, I'm not mad."_

_Santana leaned up, nuzzling her nose against Brittany's. "Britt-Britt… I made you mad, didn't I?"_

"_Just don't say that," Brittany finally said. "Don't say that you're going to be gone."_

"_Why?"_

_The blonde pushed at Santana's shoulder, stopping the lips brushing over the skin of her neck until the brunette rested against the headboard, palms grazing up and down pale thighs. "Because I don't want you to go anywhere," she Brittany breathed, her fingers toying with the skin surrounding Santana's navel. "I want to be with you, always."_

_Santana gulped, staring into sapphire blue that made her heart spin and flip a million times a second. Even though she was pretty sure this conversation was serious she couldn't quite find the words to describe how perfect she thought the blonde was. Finally, when she managed to get a handle on things, her eyes flickered up and gaged Brittany's reaction – was she… Nervous?_

"_Britt-Britt," Santana gasped softly, her right hand reaching to touch her girlfriend's cheekbone. "You know I'm not going anywhere."_

"_You say that… But things change."_

_Santana frowned. Where was all this coming from? Blue eyes downcast onto her stomach, Santana cocked her head to the side and realised it wasn't just sprouting out of nowhere – this worry had been building for a while. "Things will never change, Britt," she took a shallow, shaky breath in. "Things won't ever change between us. I don't have any other way of living."_

_The slight narrowing of Brittany's eyes kind of made Santana think she wasn't getting the point, so she elaborated. "I can't live without you, Britt. I'm always going to love you, I can't think of a time when I'm not going to feel this way about you. Because you are my heart, you are my soul, you are my oxygen." She scrunched her eyebrows together, tears welling up behind her eyes as she gulped down the lump in her throat with her eyes trained on the pale fingers by her belly button. "And without you, I would cease to exist," she shrugged for emphasis, "There'd be no point in my living."_

_Santana wasn't prepared for the wetness dripping onto her stomach as she glanced up to find Brittany staring down at her with streaming, yet equally adoring eyes. The tears were more than words, and spoke volumes that only they could hear. And so when she grinned back at her girlfriend, raising both eyebrows as if to say __**how didn't you know that?**__ Brittany leant down; pressing her lips to Santana's in a slow kiss, it made her heart want to jump out her chest and practically spelled out every feeling and emotion with every brush of their lips._

"_I love you so much," Brittany whispered between peppered kisses, "I love you, I love you, I love you."_

_Santana lingered on the last kiss, running her tongue over the bottom of Brittany's lip before pulling back and letting her head fall back to the headboard, mind spinning and eyes dizzying with the after effect of the kiss. "As I love you," she murmured like a Shakespearian actress._

"_Till the end of time?" Brittany beamed, her eyes twinkling._

_The words clicked in Santana's mind and she opened her mouth to ask how Brittany knew what she'd said earlier, but then she just shook her head and cupped her girlfriend's cheek, nodding simultaneously, "Till the end of time."_

* * *

><p>"How did you know I was in here?" Santana asks when she finally cries all the tears she can, the words imprinting onto the pale skin of Brittany's neck.<p>

She's not sure how long they've been standing there, held up in each other's arms and just settling into the comforting rhythm of each other's hearts – but it must have been a while because her legs muscles seem to have locked where they are around Brittany's waist, and the imprint of Brittany's shirt is probably denting the skin of her cheek.

"I always know where you are," Brittany breathes, like it's the most obvious answer in the world. "I can feel you, here."

A smile crosses Santana's face when she hears the heart beneath her ear skip a beat. She doesn't know how the hell Brittany does that, or how _she_ does it to Brittany, but whatever it is, it just confirms that they're made for each other because even their words don't need vocalising to explain what each other's mean. Their bodies just know.

"Aren't you going to ask?" Santana pulls away slightly, feeling the crick in the back of her neck until her eyes meet Brittany's. Their bodies stay tightly intertwined.

Brittany shakes her head, understanding unspoken words. "No, you'll tell me if you want too."

Santana smiles and lets her hands rest on the other woman's hips, fingers spanning underneath the thin fabric of Brittany's top. "Thank you," she breathes, eyes trained on the pale slither of skin showing beside her thumbs.

"It's what I'm here for."

"I love you," she says as she pulls Brittany towards her, legs spreading that little further apart to let their hips clash together. "I love you so goddamn much," she buries her face above the valley of Brittany's chest, muffling the words and trying to restrain the tears as she wills the feel of this woman's skin beneath her fingers. She doesn't think she'll ever get enough.

Hands cup her cheeks, forcing her to look up. "I love you too," Brittany breathes, "I love you too."

Brittany's hand drifts around to the nape of her neck and cups, tilting to the side so when their lips brush against one another it's at the most beneficial angle. They kiss slowly until Brittany pulls away barely an inch, eyes bright and whispering words that physical verbalisation will never do justice.

Santana smiles and nods in acknowledgement, before pressing their lips together again and letting herself drown in the comfort of Brittany.

* * *

><p>Rachel's sitting in the chair outside one of the rooms in the ICU when Santana finds her.<p>

"Berry?" She slowly walks up to the hard, plastic chair and places her hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Is she out?"

Pained brown eyes flicker up to her, barely acknowledging her presence. "Yeah, she's in there asleep."

Santana cocks her head, before peering into the room closest and seeing the barely alive body of Quinn, wires sticking out from her body and her skin a deathly shade of white. The sheer state of the blondes body makes Santana want to throw up – she could've prevented this. She could've done _something,_ fucking _anything_ to make sure Quinn wasn't lying in that bed.

But she didn't.

And now she has to live with that.

"Why aren't you…" The words trail off as she finds the own answer. _"Oh._"

Santana knows that if the positions were reversed, and Brittany was in that bed instead of Quinn, there would be no way she could stay by the bed constantly. Movies and TV shows always show loved ones waiting by the side of the bed, clutching the patient's hands and hoping that they can feel them. But it's not like that in reality; in reality it's so much harder to do that. To sit by the side, knowing you can't do a single fucking thing to stop the suffering and just watching the love of your life, or whoever's in the bed just lying there.

"Do you mind if I go in?" Santana asks, tentatively, checking initial reactions for any signs of an instant _no._

Rachel shakes her head, looking too frail and pained to even speak. Santana just looks down the hall to Brittany and cocks her head towards the small brunette, silently asking a question – Brittany gets the picture and comes up, sitting beside Rachel and instantly taking her hand.

She mouths _thank you_ to Brittany before walking in.

* * *

><p>Quinn's lying on the bed, eyes closed and heart rate beating steadily from the machine to her right. There's two small, transparent tubes sticking out her nose and a large white, bandage wrapped around her midsection, visible from a parting in the hospital gown. Santana sucks in a sharp intake of breath and bites on her bottom lip, tying her emotions down as she walks towards the blonde, hooking her ankle around the leg of the nearest chair and tugging it with her until she can sit on it beside the beeping machine.<p>

She reaches out, hand hovering in the air with uncertainty. Quinn looks so frail that she's scared with one touch she's going to further damage by like bursting an artery or something. It would just be her fucking luck.

"I'm not dead," Quinn croaks, shifting her body and wincing at the slight movement. "If that's what you were thinking.

"Holy shit," Santana gasps in relief, jerking back slightly. "You scared the crap out of me."

Quinn's lips twitch at the corner, "Wimp."

Santana basically has to lock her ankles around one of the chairs legs to keep herself from hugging Quinn when she hears the blondes humour back. "Nice to have you back, Fabray."

"I'd say it's nice to-"Quinn flinches as her hands press into the sterile sheets in attempt to hoist herself up "-to be back, but I feel like a eighteen wheeler ran me over and then reversed and did it again."

Santana stands, easing one hand underneath her friend to support the weight as she pulls the pillow up with her other, creating a more comfortable position. "Easy there, Batman. You may be tough but you're not that tough."

Quinn lets out a small whimper as she tries to laugh, but Santana just shakes her head and takes her seat once more. "I'm fine," she insists, stretching out her arm and flexing her fingers to edge the cup of ice chips towards her. "Just pass me the cup."

"Sure," Santana hands over the chips, before settling back into her chair. It's not a great time, but with Brittany outside and the psycho still on the loose; Santana needs to get some sort of information. There's no way she's letting this happen again, and the sooner the better. "Q…"

"No, I didn't see who it was," Quinn takes an ice chip between her teeth and sucks. "I barely remember it."

Santana grits her teeth together. _Great,_ another dead end. "Fuck," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward and clasping her hands together like she's a detective or something. Right now, she does _feel _like a detective. "What _do _you remember?"

Quinn narrows her eyes, hazel clouding over like she's deep in thought. "I went downstairs, and reached the bottom step when I heard something in the kitchen. I didn't think twice about it, considering it was like six in the morning and just ignored it. Next thing I know something practically lurches out in front of me and then this happens," she motions towards the left side of her chest, "and I'm on the floor struggling to breathe."

The words cause Quinn to cry in pain and Santana glances back to the door, wondering if Rachel heard it. "Q, Berry's outside."

Quinn shrinks, sucking her lips into her mouth to muffle the sound as her fists clench the pale green comforter of her bed. "Can you ask her to come in?" She struggles out, probably wondering if there are any drugs around to kill the pain.

Santana smiles, it's kind of nauseating that she's happy for them. The last two people she ever thought would get together actually turned out to be the happiest – thinking back, she can actually see the tell-tale signs. "Sure, Q. Do you want me to get Watson in?"

"Watson?"

"Your doctor…" Santana ducks her head slightly. Surely he would've come in?"

"Oh," Quinn's voice is shocked, "then sure."

Suspicion burns through Santana and she clenches the arms of the chair. Could that psycho posed as a doctor and come in? Could he have got information out of Quinn. _Shit,_ Santana was just down the hall. "Who came in?"

Perfectly shaped eyebrows scrunch together. Another thing that pisses Santana off – Quinn was nearly dead a few hours ago and yet she's still maintaining a relatively pretty face. _Piss take._ "What?"

"Who's come in to see you?"

Quinn purses her lips; eyes darting from side to side in a _why are you asking this_ kind of look. "Someone came in, heard them flicking through my chart but I was pretty drugged so I couldn't see who it was."

Santana freezes, eyes widening as she inhales the air. It's that scent again… That one in the pool house the first time she received a letter… That second time when… _Damn, _when was that? Where has she smelt it? "They didn't touch you?"

"Santana, it was probably a nurse." Quinn tries to reassure her but it doesn't work. "They come in all the time."

Jaw clenched, Santana pushes her tongue to the back of her front teeth. "It could've been him."

"S, he's not stupid enough to do anything in a hospital."

A long exhale comes out unwillingly. It's true. The chances of the psycho hiding for so long and then suddenly making a spectacle of himself inside an Alaskan hospital is pretty unlikely. Then again, she did think the chances of him breaking into a secluded cabin, and finding it in the first place, wasn't going to happen. The words don't quell her concerns at all. "I guess," she breathes, not wanting to screw her mind up with possibilities.

"Now," Quinn settles her hands together on top of her stomach, making sure not to touch the tender skin. "Can you get Rach for me?"

Santana stands, trying to ignore her irrational ideas and pats the top of Quinn's hands with a feigned smile on her face. "Sure, Q. Sure."

* * *

><p>Santana's sitting on the plastic chair outside Quinn's room when a nurse comes over to her. She has her hands buried into her face, which is hanging between her open knees and right now a shot of Smirnoff's finest or some Jack Daniels would <em>really<em> fucking help.

"Excuse me, Miss Lopez?" The redheaded nurse murmurs, smile too sweet in comparison to the majority of the other smiles the nurses are giving out. It makes Santana think she belongs in the pediatrics section but the rota just shoved her up here.

"Uh, yeah?"

"How are you doing?" The nurse moves around, her name badge saying _Emma_ and sits down on the chair beside her. Her deer eyes soften with sympathy and Santana squints her eyes, because, _really? _Did she just step into a counselors office? "You seem to be affected by your Miss Fabray's injury?"

Santana shuffles in her seat, flexing her fingers as her eyes are trained on the nurses station to her left. "_Quinn _is going to be fine."

Emma sits there, her eyes boring into Santana's profile as she gently places both hands into her own lap, tugging at the hem of her scrub top to straighten it out and breathing in and out softly like she's trying to create a feng shui kind of thing to calm Santana down. Honestly, it only rattles her cage more.

"If you'd like to talk to anyone we have plenty of people that deal with these type problems and how they affect the loved ones of injured people. However, I do have some pamphlets back at my-"

Santana twists her body, clears her throat and ducks her head slightly to stare into deer-in-the-headlight type eyes. "Look, lady, I really don't need some sort of counselling session. My girlfriend is standing down there," she points to Brittany down the end of the hallway who's staring at something at the wall with her head cocked and brows furrowed in confusion. Even though Santana should probably go up and see what she's looking at, the blonde is just too damn adorable to disturb. That _could_ be why Santana been sitting here for the past five minutes, "and my best friend is now lying in a bed after having life-saving surgery because the same ass-hole who did _that_ to Quinn, is also out to get my girlfriend."

She pauses and feels tingles shoot throughout her body. The urge to smile almost becomes too much because she hasn't called Brittany her_ girlfriend_ in years - and she wishes she had a little more time to appreciate this feeling, but she doesn't. So she just continues. "I'm sure you or your neuro-buddies have trained for years and tried to figure out the human brain, but I can guarantee you with me it'd be a dead end. I've been through way too much for you or your buddies to even _begin_ to comprehend what the hell is going on in my mind and I'm not exactly in the best state at the moment to read some damn pamphlets to try and figure that out. So if you don't mind, you can go back to your nurses station, and I'll just carry on sitting here whilst trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to protect my girlfriend" - there's the tingle again - "and my best friends from that freak if he walks in here, guns blazing, without so much as a Taser on me. ¿Comprende?"

Emma gulps audibly and nods slowly," Uh.. Y-yes M-Miss..."

Santana tilts her head to the side, showing a slight smile, "Good. So if you don't mind," she waves her hand towards the nurses station and then returns her head to her hands. It's only about a second later when she hears the squeak of sneakers on the linoleum floor that she knows that damn nurse, Emma or Ernie or whatever the hell her name is, is back.

"Uh..." The redhead stutters, plucking at the hem of her scrubs. "You've g-got a p-phone call."

Her head snaps up so fast she's pretty sure she just clicked something in her spine. Brown eyes widen up at the nurse, who jerks back slightly in reaction to the speed of the movement, and Santana's mouth drops open. It's like someone just stabbed her in the heart with a shot of adrenaline because her heart is back to blaring it's beat inside of her ears. "Did they say who it was?"

The nurse stays still, quaking slightly as Santana raises both eyebrows, her patience wearing off faster than Usain Bolt running. "Uh..."

"Spit it out, Bambi." Santana hisses, her fingers curling around her own kneecap. Punching a nurse would probably be counterproductive.

"They said it's a Mr. Anderson."

Santana breathes out, and tries not to think of the Matrix connotations. She wonders if Blaine must get that a lot when referred to formally, but the thought is fleeting as she gets to her feet and follows the redhead nurse towards the small station to the right. Emma picks up the phone, pressing in a few digits and passes the phone with trembling fingers. Santana mentally notes to apologise, but it'll have to be later, she's got way to many things on her mind at the moment to care about how rude she was to a damn nurse. The chick was annoying anyway.

"Hey," she murmurs into the phone, her heart slowly returning to it's usual beat. "What's up?"

"_They've caught him!"_

Santana jerks her head back at the sheer volume of Blaine's voice. "Whoah, sparky, calm down. Who's caught who?"

"_That psycho! The police came around this morning to tell us!"_

A wave of relief washes over Santana and she sinks against the counter, elbows resting on top whilst she restrains happy tears. "Are you serious? Is it definitely him!"

"_Yeah! They did a comparison from that CCTV video and they're practically the same build and height. Not to mention the guy fessed up to stalking Brittany!"_

She rests her forehead against the countertop, breathing out heavily as she peers down the hallway to where Brittany's standing, now talking on the phone instead of staring at whatever was at the wall. Blue eyes meet hers, immediately sparkling and the muscle memory to sprint over there, wrap Brittany up in her arms and kiss her with everything she's got is almost too much - but it slowly falls when Brittany covers her phone and murmurs _"Artie says hi."_ It's almost like she's preparing herself to snap, run down the hall and throw the phone against the wall, but when she smiles and exhales softly - she knows everything's going right for her, for once. It doesn't bother her that it's Artie on the other end, she knows her heart's safe and that Brittany loves her. It's a strange feeling to be vulnerable and okay with it.

A massive grin pulls at her lips and she breathes out a long, relieved exhale. "That's amazing, Blaine."

"_Totally. How's Quinn anyway?"_

Santana nods, still grinning at Brittany. She's pretty glad Blaine can't see her because that sappy _aw-we're-both-gays-in-love _smile that he gives her is really starting to grate on her nerves. Remembering he's on the phone, she winks at Brittany and then turns back to the nurses station. There's no way she can actually finish this conversation _and _stare at Brittany - she's just too damn distracting. "Recovering, and dosed up on pills. She's gonna be fine though, I think."

_"That's amazing, and I would prefer if you wouldn't stare at Brittany whilst we're on the phone. I actually rang you for a reason. It was pretty difficult to find a hospital in the middle of Alaska with only Quinn and your names."_

Dark brows meet her hairline. "What?"

_"Considering I'm not hearing snickers or soft sighs I'm guessing she's not standing next to you," _Blaine explains, his voice knowing and soft at the same time - a mix that kind of pisses Santana off. _"And judging by the raspy airy edge to your voice, I'm guessing you're probably staring at her."_

_Damn. _He's good. It probably shouldn't, but shivers of excitement burn through her body and she bites her bottom lip. Does Brittany really have a physical effect on her as well as emotional? "Well I've stopped now," she exhales deeply, "So talk away, pixie-dust."

_"I was just ringing up to say-"_

Santana should feel bad, but when she glances to her right and brings her nail up to chew on, Brittany's leaning casually against the wall, phone tucked between her ribcage and palm and she has an _'I'm-waiting' _kind of expression on her face that makes Santana's heart jump out her throat. And who would Santana be to deny the most wonderful woman on Earth, who she can now finally focus on instead of the creepy asshole sitting behind rusty bars?

"Look," she begins, bringing the phone away from her ear and deciding whether making a muffling sound and saying the line's breaking up would be believable or not. She decides against it. "I gotta go, going to tell the guys the great news!"

"_Okay,"_ Blaine giggles. She guesses the 'raspy and airy edge' to her voice is back. Like she cares, though?_ "Bye Santana."_

"Bye."

She throws down the phone and runs down the hallway, immediately scooping Brittany up in her arms and spinning them around like their in a freakin' movie or something. People can stare, it doesn't bother her, she's got the only thing she's ever going to need inside her arms and she's going to cherish every moment she has from now on. Within two second Brittany's fingers are tangled in her hair, stretching her neck until their lips press together and brush against each other like they were made too.

Nothing can ruin her day, now.

She's on cloud fucking nine.

* * *

><p>Santana calls everyone into Quinn's room, lacing her fingers through Brittany's as she announces the news.<p>

They practically throw a party, whistling and '_woo'_ing like there's no tomorrow.

The nurse comes to tell them to keep it down, and Santana just grins, kissing Brittany with everything she has before Sam nudges her and whispers _"keep it PG"_. She just grins and then heads out towards the nurses' station to sign a few of Quinn's papers.

* * *

><p>She's tired, she's hungry and she's pretty sure there's still lake water in her lungs, soaking up all the water she consumes. The hallways are still as empty as they were earlier, only a few nurses at the station typing away at the computer with blank expressions. She wouldn't be surprised if they'd managed to master the art of sleeping with their eyes open they looked <em>that <em>spaced out.

Quinn's still away when she gets to her room, with Sam, Rachel and Kurt sitting in various chairs. Brittany's seated on the end of Quinn's bed and Puck's standing in the corner of the room, one hand leaning on the wall whilst the other flips through the TV channels finding nothing but news and documentaries.

Quinn's eyes are locked onto intertwined fingers and there's a gleam that gives Santana the urge to makes a comment about, or to stick to fingers into her mouth, but she doesn't. Quinn's happy. Even if it is with _Berry._

She rolls her eyes at herself. Berry isn't _that_ bad.

"Isn't it hard to breathe with those tubes up your nose?" Sam asks, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes from his place at the window.

Quinn smirks, eyes breaking from her and Rachel's laced fingers towards a quizzical Sam. "It's as easy as breathing."

Rachel rolls her eyes, furrowing her brows in concern at her girlfriend's joke and tightens her fingers around the blondes. Her eyes are a little brighter, her knee is no longer tapping a rhythmic sequences on the floor nervously and there's no longer than _I'm about to lose everything _expression etched on her face. "Quinn, that's not funny."

"It is a little," Santana interjects, sliding into the room and leaning her back against the wall nearest the door. Brittany stands, heading towards her instantly with a smile that could light up the room and Santana relaxes a little, forgetting her body's needs when soft lips brush against her own.

"Hey," Santana whispers into Brittany's lips.

Brittany grins, "Hey."

It's like everything's all dandy now. Blaine's call to say they caught the psycho, Brittany's here with her and they're happy. Quinn's going to be alright and now Santana can tolerate Rachel. It seems like everything's falling into place.

"It's not funny, Santana." Rachel continues her rant, breaking Santana from her Brittany stupor.

"Lighten up Berry,"

Rachel's head snaps up, tamed aggression burning in her eyes. Santana raises her hands defensively; maybe it's not time to make jokes yet – even if Quinn is. "Whoah, cool it. Just kidding?" She offers a small smile whilst Brittany tangles their fingers together, standing beside her in the free space of the wall.

Quinn reaches with her free hand to brush a lock of Rachel's hair behind her ear, smiling sweetly despite the movement probably tugging at her stitches. "Rach, it's cool. She doesn't mean any harm."

"Yeah, chill _Rach_."

Sam and Puck laugh in the background and Santana's eyes immediately flicker towards the blonde man. His face falls when he gages the serious expression on her face and stands, heading towards her since she's practically beckoning with her eyes. The curling finger movement would've been a little less obvious.

"Excuse us," Sam smiles at Quinn and Rachel who are too wrapped up in each other's eyes, whispering things and grinning with heightened sappiness that they basically ignore him anyway. Brittany gives Santana a smile that makes her heart flip as Santana squeezes her girlfriend's hand, before releasing it and exiting. Puck just grunts in acknowledgement.

The reach the stairwell, Santana leading the way and deciding it's the most secluded spot they'll find. She stops, resting her shoulder against the cold concrete wall with her arms crossed. The beginnings of anger is already burning in the pit of her stomach knowing if Sam had done his job properly, and actually _checked _the locks before heading to bed – Quinn wouldn't be lying in that hospital bed with twenty something stitches and a bullet shaped hole in her lung.

"Look, Santana…"

"No." Santana cuts off, raising her hand and gritting her teeth - she needs to keep her cool for the first few sentences and then if she doesn't like the answer, she'll decide whether or not to kick the living daylights out of him. "You're going to listen to me first, without saying a word. Nod if you get it."

Sam nods, so she continues. "You were hired because Puck or Quinn or whoever you were hired by, felt sorry for you. You were practically a bum and had no previous training in this field, which should probably mean that I let you off easy." He flinches, eyes widening slightly as Santana grows taller with each word.

"But you know me, and I'm _not _going to do that. You weren't a good choice for the job – you've got as much experience as a chipmunk. So listen up, trouty mouth," she steps towards him, trying to calm her shaking fists, "Next time you think it's a good idea to do a mediocre job of a security round, that _will be_ the last time you see the light. Quinn's now lying in a fucking hospital bed because of you, with a collapsed lung because you couldn't do your fucking job properly."

Santana settles back, hiding the smirk of satisfaction she gets as he narrows his eyes at her. When they dated, he usually never took her crap, but there's a flash of guilt that makes her almost feel bad for what she said. It's not like it wasn't true, he was untrained and a bad choice for the job – but she knows she hit a nerve. _Damn,_ Brittany's seriously done a good job of softening her badass-ness.

"Unless," she begins, not even believing herself that she's offering the guy responsible for Quinn getting shot a chance to explain. "You have something you want to tell me."

Sam looks down, eyes flickering along the floor like he's trying to hide something. Santana pulls the anger that was clouding her feature away from her face and brings her hand up to tilt his chin up. She narrows her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

Sam shrugs away, backing up and straightening his neck. "I didn't do the security round."

Santana's left fist clenches and a spark surges down her arm. Red flashes in front of her eyes – because he didn't even do his fucking job. He didn't even _try. _Unless he continues she's about two seconds away from busting his face in half, and has a reason to justify the action.

"Wait, wait, wait," he waves his hands in front of him, eyes widening like he's genuinely terrified. "I didn't do the security round, because Puck offered too."

The anger disappears and she snaps her head up, surprised at the statement. "What?"

"Puckerman said he'd do it after he got out the shower, so I let him."

"Puckerman?"

Sam blinks. "Yeah."

"Why didn't he do it?" She whispers to herself, brows furrowing as her back slumps against the cold wall. If it wasn't for the respect she owes Puck for getting her this job, (because whilst he may not know, she kind of has him to thanks for the reunion between her and Britt), she'd march up to him without a second thought and kick the crap out of him.

"I'm sure he has an explanation." Sam shrugs, relaxing as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Santana nods, biting her bottom lip. "Yeah… Guess so."

* * *

><p>They return back to Quinn's room, but this time only Kurt and Rachel are in there watching a Streisand documentary that Berry probably <em>insisted <em>on watching. Santana's brows furrow as Sam returns to his chair by the window, propping his feet up on one of the bed's poles.

She heads towards the small table with a few magazines on top, resting the top of her thighs against it and leans back. There are no other chairs and she'd be in the way of the TV if she sat in Brittany's place - not that it wouldn't be funny to see Rachel scowl at her for blocking her view, but she's not feeling too mean at the moment.

"Where's Britt?" Santana asks, running uneasy fingers through knotted hair. She can't help but feel nervous whenever Brittany's not around her now.

Quinn tears her eyes away from the TV, "Doctor Watson came in and told me the extent of the damage and then she said she was hungry, so she went to the cafeteria."

Santana nods, trying not to feel worried. "And Puck?"

"With her," Quinn continues, this time not taking her eyes off the screen. "B saw Puck coming out the bathroom and apparently he had a nasty gash on his arm or something. Brittany being Brittany she said he should get it checked out, even though it looked a week or two old. You know what she's like."

Santana's lips curl down at the side. Brittany's always been like that. "Yeah, that's Britt for you."

* * *

><p>Sam walks back in the room carrying two chocolate bars and a packet of doritos. Santana smirks and lets out a small chuckle. Cafeteria food has always been crappy, but way better than stuffing her face full of confectionary and chips – then again, she never was a big sweet eater.<p>

"How can you maintain that body shape despite eating that much crap?" She grins, kicking her feet up onto the arm of Rachel's chair and relaxing into the chair the nurse brought in. Alaskan hospitality is so much better than Californian.

"Leave it out," Sam responds with affection, chucking down his snacks onto the window ledge and sitting back on his seat. "Cool Ranch Dorito's are my favourite and the salad bar here is like four weeks old."

Santana grins in response and inhales deeply. Something cold drops in her stomach when she catches the scent of a familiar smell. She looks down, spotting a jacket on the floor and picks it up – why the hell was she only _just _noticing that smell? Her whole body snaps up and Quinn eyes her slowly, noticing the sudden movement.

"What's up with you jumpy?" Sam chucks a chip into his mouth and crunches down on it.

Her eyes widen and she flares her nostrils, bringing the jacket to her face and inhaling deeply once more. "Who's jacket is this?" She asks, eyes moving across the room to settle on the blonde guy munching on his Doritos. "Is this yours?"

Sam shakes his head, "No, it's Pucks…"

* * *

><p><em>The pool house is quiet, eerily so and she immediately inhales deeply, an unfamiliar scent invading her nostrils.<em>

* * *

><p><em>"Don't mind if I do," she replies with a smile. "Oh, by the way, Sam asked for JP?"<em>

_Puck shoots her a quizzical expression but then shrugs and reaches into his pocket. She's expecting something elaborate, or anything interesting – except what she receives is probably the last thing she thought of._

_"Cologne?" she says, eyebrows up by her hairline as she examines the small bottle in her hand. "JP is cologne?"_

_Puck takes the cigar back and nods slowly. "Well, yeah."_

_It's strange. Mostly because Sam seemed quite reluctant to tell Santana what he wanted. Why the hell would he be hesitant about damn aftershave? It just doesn't make any sense._

_"Oh." She lifts the cap and brings it to her nose, smelling it quickly. It's familiar. She's smelt that before. Her mind flickers back and it clicks. She knows it from the pool house. A few weeks ago, when she walked in and smelt it… Sam. Holy shit. Sam has more to do with this than he's letting out. Why the hell didn't she see it before?_

_Puck jabs her in the arm lightly and she jerks forward, dropping the glass bottle. She's about to let out a sentence full of Spanish curses, expecting the sound of glass breaking to cause it, but her eyes fall on a tanned hand grasping the bottle. She looks up and sees Puck smiling at her. Damn, he's fast._

_"Watch out Lopez," he smirks. "Sam's gonna be pissed if he doesn't get that. He loves that stuff."_

_There's more to Sam than everyone knows. And Santana's going to find out what it is._

_"Yeah. I'm sure he does."_

* * *

><p><em>Puck shrugs, "Actually I came to get the cologne I gave to you yesterday, saw Sam a minute ago and he said you hadn't given it to him."<em>

_"Oh, yeah, shit sorry. Was a bit pre-occupied with a little thing called my job, maybe you should've been too."_

_She slips off the door and leaves it open for Puck to walk in. She heads back towards the bedroom where she knows her blazer is, and hopes to God that the cologne's still in there. If not, she might as well bring out a silver platter for her head to be served on. Since he "__loves that damn stuff"__. Oh fuck, that reminds her. That's __the__smell. The one she walked in on. She still has to talk to Trouty Mouth about that._

* * *

><p><em>"Hey Sam?" She calls, "You know that cologne you wear?"<em>

_Sam frowns and then nods as it crosses his mind, "Well, actually I don't wear it."_

_Santana frowns, "What?"_

_"I don't wear it anymore. I only bought it because it was cheap, and then after a few uses, I decided I didn't like it."_

_Suspicion burns through her veins. It's not like Sam would lie to her, and if she did, her three week lie-detecting training programme she had back in Afghanistan should let her know. The programme was quick, but efficient. _

_So, she supresses it and smiles, "Oh right, okay."_

* * *

><p>"You don't wear that cologne anymore?" She presses on, the words coming out more like a statement than a question.<p>

"No, not since the day I arrived here - smells weird when it's mixed with heat and it's pretty hot in LA."

Santana gulps, every word coming out of his fish lipped mouth just makes her body tense further. "Puck…" she licks her dried lips, "Puck wears it?"

Sam nods and leans forward, eyes quizzical. "Yeah, Santana, why? What's going on?"

"Why did you want it then?" She completely ignores all the looks at the questions, feeling like she's heading down epiphany road and seeing light at the end of the tunnel. "You asked me to get it for you from him."

"Yeah, I was going to take it back because I lost my other cologne but then it turned up."

Everything seems to be slowly clicking into place as Santana brings her hand up to her face, dropping the jacket simultaneously. "So Puck's been wearing this since then?"

Sam nods and Santana's heart sinks. "Q…" She starts, her eyes trained on nothing in particular as pieces are slowly clicking together in the back of her mind, "Where did you say Britt was?"

Quinn sits up, and apparently now Rachel's paying attention. "With Puck, why? What's wrong?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Santana grits her teeth together, anger, fear and frustration building inside of her. "Why the fuck is she with Puckerman?"

Quinn furrows her brow and shuffles to settle more comfortably in bed. Rachel moves, twisting her head and body and mimicking the same expression Sam and Quinn both have. Quizzical and scared. "He had a gash on his arm…"

* * *

><p><em>She gasps, watching him land and roll, before pushing up and grasping his arm. From the second floor, Santana watches quickly as the figure removes his hand from the wound, revealing a large gash in his black sweatshirt and going through to his skin.<em>

* * *

><p>Something cold drops in her stomach, something strangely similar to nausea. It's like everything blurs out as the light bulb flicks on inside her mind. She almost beats herself up for being so fucking dumb. How the fuck didn't she see it?<p>

* * *

><p><em>Santana's hand lowers, and she aims to put the mug down on the countertop but misses. Her arm does a little spasm and she jolts off the counter, in any attempt to catch the mug that's currently falling through the air. But as she reaches for it, another tanned hand beats her too it and her head snaps up to look into dark, hazel eyes.<em>

_"Whoah," She says, eyeing up his hand grasping the mug tightly, "And you said__I__had reactions like a cat." She jokes, straightening up and shuffling back onto the counter._

_Panic flashes across his face, and Santana raises an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. But within a second she shakes it off, like it matters? So what if Puck has ridiculously good reactions? Join the freakin' club._

_"Uh," He stutters, shoving the mug onto the counter next to him, "Yeah, I gotta go."_

_And within a second, the door shuts and Santana's left alone, wondering what the hell just happened._

* * *

><p><em>Santana quickly leaps, stretching her arm high as she grabs an apple, halting her movement. She throws her arm back, before chucking it with as much strength as she can towards the figure that's also stopped. But he's fast. Really fucking fast, and he spins just in time, catching the fruit as it about an inch away from his face and Santana widens her eyes. <em>Damn.

* * *

><p>Suddenly it feels like the whole room is closing in on Santana. The walls are slowly closing in and claustrophobia is creeping up her spine. Her pulse is loud in her ears and it feels like everything's moving in slow motion.<p>

There's no way this can be happening.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_**Lopez**__!" Puck calls again, his voice louder than before._

* * *

><p><em>"I'll tell you about it later <em>_**Lopez**__," Puck says with a wag of his eyebrows._

* * *

><p><em>"Yo, <em>_**Lopez**__, what you doing tonight?" Puck asks when the window slides down._

* * *

><p><em>"You know enough." The figure says, reaching up to steady himself on the top of the frame. "You can't protect her forever, <em>_**Lopez**__."_

* * *

><p>Santana gasps. The letter.<p>

Sam looks to Quinn, who looks to Rachel, who just looks back to Sam.

But Santana doesn't see.

* * *

><p><em>She sees the envelope lodged in between the entrance of the pool house, with <em>_**Lopez **__scribbled on the front in thick black marker._

* * *

><p>"Santana?"<p>

The voices calling her name are like whispers in the back of her mind. Everything's happening so fast but so slowly at the same time that she's not entirely sure what to do with herself.

So she just grips the arm of the chair tighter.

* * *

><p><em>"We know him?" Blaine tilts his head curiously. "So he could be someone in this compound?"<em>

_"He said I would recognise his voice."_

_Sam steps in, switched into an alpha male mode. "Recognise his voice?"_

_"Yeah," Santana nods. "He was using a voice changer, or something that altered his natural voice. He's scared I'll know him."_

_"Like Scream?" Puck cuts in, crossing one ankle over the other._

_Karofsky raises an eyebrow, and Santana purses her lips, searching for recognition of his question. "Scream?"_

_"The movie," Puck pushes off the wall, arms still crossed and looking like he's about to delve into an old mythical tale about werewolves and vampires. "Ghost-faced killer disguises his voice, by using a voice changer to make him sound completely different from his original voice, so that Sydney, the main chick, won't recognise him. In the second one, a woman uses the changer, and makes herself sound like a guy – so for all you know, this psycho could actually be a chick."_

* * *

><p>Santana knew there was something strange about his increased knowledge on the film and the props. But it's not until now that she finally realizes what the hell that nagging feeling, itching at the base of her neck meant.<p>

Everything inside of her is frozen, and it feels like she could collapse at any moment.

She's not entirely sure she's even breathing, but it doesn't matter.

The psycho, the freak, the stalker – whatever you want to call him, has been under her nose the whole time, mocking her and smirking because he tricked her. He tricked everyone, he made a fool out of them.

A hand brushes on her shoulder, and she barely registers that it's Rachel before her eyes look up – not really meeting quizzical brown as her mouth falls open and she whispers two words make her blood run cold and heart feel like it just dropped out her butt.

"It's Puck."

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews please?<strong>


	17. chapter sixteen

**God I know it's been a long time since I've updated and I apologize! Had writers block! ****I haven't read through this so all mistakes are my own. My beta has gone missing so I need to find her...**

**But here it is, another chapter, and I hope you enjoy!**

**Thank you for all your wonderful reviews!**

* * *

><p><strong>Title: <strong>The Bodyguard [Chapter Sixteen]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I own nothing.  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>8.9k

* * *

><p>Quinn shuffles in bed, pushing her palms onto the mattress to do so. "What?"<p>

Santana freezes, blinking rapidly in time with her heart rate. "It's Puck," she repeats through dry lips.

Everything's sinking into place. It's gradual, it's painful, it's hard – but it's all fitting in like a puzzle. Why the hell didn't she see it before? All those clues, all those subtle hints, all that time she spent looking for something that was beneath her very nose. _Fuck. _She's such a fucking dumbass! Of course it was Puck. It was too fucking obvious to be him, that _obviously _it was him! _Jesus Christ, _she's watched enough episodes of CSI to know that the most unsuspecting person is usually the culprit. Even if Grissom never seems to get that into his head.

But why?

"Why would it be Noah?" Rachel asks from her side, hand still resting on her shoulder. "That's ridiculous, Santana."

Her grip around the arms of the chair tightens, her knuckles pressing incredibly hard against the skin until it turns a deathly white. She grits her teeth together harder. The last thing she wants - besides Brittany being with Puckerman who turns out to be a complete psycho – is for fucking Rachel Berry, who yeah she's been getting along with, to get up in her grill and question her about something that even she's not entirely sure of, and then proceed to completely dismiss the possibility.

"Holy shit," Sam pipes up, his expression twisting to something resembling Santana's. "She's right," he turns to Quinn, "Think about it. The letters. That gash on his arm. His freakishly fast reactions."

Quinn's eyes flicker from side to side like she doesn't know what the hell to think. It's not exactly hard to understand why, at the moment Santana doesn't know what the hell to do. "He's got Brittany," are the only words that come from the blondes mouth, despite it looking like she wants to say more.

It's strange how three simple words can spark a reaction from someone. Santana jolts from the chair, hands curling into a fist and digging into the top of her thigh as her whole body tries to fight it's tense state. There's no point though. Without Brittany by her side... Without Brittany in her damn sight and out with that fucking _psycho_, she'll never be calm. Her heart's pounding so damn fast that it's almost hard to contain it from bursting straight through her chest.

"Why would he do that?" Rachel whispers, and even though it's like she's whispering to herself, Santana still spins around, eyes staring at her with a sharp glare that could tear straight through the short brunette. "Why would Noah take Brittany? Do all that to Brittany? There's no reason for him to-"

"It doesn't fucking matter _why _he did it," Santana bites, taking a daring step forward. "He's _fucking _done it and that's all that matters. Right now he has Brittany and no-one knows where the _fuck _he is or what he's going to do so we all we need to do is fucking find him." Each of her words drip with aggression and venom, and although none of the people in the room have actually done anything, she knows she's taking her frustration and annoyance out on them. She's seriously such an ass. But right now, she couldn't care less.

"What do you suggest we do, Einstein?" Quinn snipes from the bed. Probably in retaliation to Santana's little outburst. "Pretty sure Puckerman doesn't have a tracker inside his brain."

Santana pauses, mouth dropping open to make a snide, irrational and frankly, unneeded remark about screwing a hobbit when an idea pops into her brain. She snaps her mouth shut, body twisting to face the blonde. "Tracker."

"Tracker?"

She nods, hand digging into her pocket to find a phone that isn't there. She curses inwardly, before practically sprinting out the door and towards the nurses station. Even the sound of Quinn calling her name doesn't stop her, and without asking the poor nurse standing behind the desk, she reaches over, grabbing the phone set and hoisting it up onto the ledge.

"Excuse me, Miss, but you can't use the pho-"

"Shut up," Santana growls, punching in the numbers and bringing the phone to her ear. She's sure later she'll feel bad for telling an innocent nurse to shut up, but right now it's not exactly on the forefront of her mind. Drumming her fingertips onto the counter top, she grinds her teeth together and impatiently waits for Karofsky to pick up the damn phone. Because _seriously, _what else is he fucking doing? Pounding sand?

"_Hello?"_

"Karofsky" Santana turns, free hand slamming onto the counter top and making the nurse jump. "I need you to track all three SUV's for me. Two of them should be out of use, and one of them will be..."

She wants to say_with Brittany, _but even the thought makes heat prick at her eyelids. Emotions are something she can't do with right now. If there's one thing the Army's taught her, it's that she needs to keep stone cold and part herself from anything she feels. Nothing ever works if feelings are involved. _'Emotional attachments drag you down' - _the only thing she ever really heard when Jesse St. James spoke. Now she gets it.

Not for one second would she take back the last few weeks, because despite all the shit, she got Brittany back and they're stronger than ever. Well, she ducks her head, forgetting about the insistent voice coming down the line, they _were _stronger than ever.

"_Lopez? Are you there?"_

"I'm here," she croaks, feeling the tears well up. "Just track the damn SUV's and get back to me, pronto."

She knows that by her voice, Karofsky won't question her further. He's a lot of things, but stupid he's not. Well, most of the time.

"_Will do. I'll call back on this number as soon as I know."_

She doesn't respond, opting to hang up instead because the tears are just too much.

* * *

><p>The phone rings barely three minutes later, the tone ridiculously loud. Well, she is <em>literally<em> lying on the phone. Head on the speaker.

"Hello?" She picks up, speaking breathlessly.

"_I've got a location," _Karofsky cuts straight to the chase, not even bothering with a greeting. Sometimes, Santana thinks they could be friends. _"The SUV's en route to a place called Anchorage."_

"How do you know?" Santana lifts one hand, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He could be going somewhere else."

"_He's on a straight road. It doesn't lead anywhere else except a State Park and an abandoned airstrip."_

"How far away is it?"

"_Approximately twenty minutes from your location. Take the Eagle River Loop and then Glenn Highway. It's the quickest route."_

Santana mentally scribbles down the directions, leg muscles itching to speed towards the nearest exit. She's kind of thankful for Karofsky right now, she has to admit. Even though she'd _never _say it out loud. Instead, she nods to herself and grunts a quick, "Thank you" into the receiver, because that's the closest she'll ever get to being verbally grateful towards him.

"_No problem, Lopez. Now get going."_

She nods again – to herself – and hangs up, quickly pocketing the directions and spinning on her heel to head towards Quinn's room. When she gets there, Sam's standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear and Rachel's sitting by Quinn's bed, leg bobbing up and down and biting her bottom lip nervously as she holds the blondes hand. Hazel eyes are staring directly at Santana, silently asking what's going on and she just nods, not sure what the nod even means.

Right now her head's so messed up she can barely even remember her own name.

Sam snaps his phone shut, twirling until he faces Santana with stoic features. "Just got off the phone with Kurt." Her eyes dart from side to side. _When the hell did Kurt even disappear?_ "He's talking to the police now."

"Where is he?"

"Downstairs," Sam replies.

If it weren't for the situation, she'd probably laugh. "And you're on the phone to him, why?"

Sam crosses his arms, annoyance etching across his face. "Would you prefer me to take longer and for Brittany to get further and further away?"

She winces. Okay, he has a point. _Fuck, _she's so totally fucked up in the head that she doesn't even feel anything at the moment. No laughter, no pain, no anger. She's numb. Without Brittany, that's how she'll be. "Low blow, Evans."

"Truth hurts," he quips, narrowing his eyes.

"Seriously!" Rachel jumps from the chair, throwing her hands into the air and startling everyone in the room. "You guys are fucking fighting whilst Brittany's out there," she thrusts her arm, pointy finger out, towards the window, "With psycho Noah! Seriously!" The last word comes out as a shriek, and Santana flinches, one eye closing and face scrunching.

"Rachel's right," Quinn interjects, her face still slightly shocked from the outburst. "Santana you need to grow some cajones and fucking go and get your girl! And you need to take Sam with you for back up."

Santana grits her teeth. "I can do this on my own, Fabray."

Quinn arches a brow. "No, you can't. You're head is fucked up, your mind is in no fit condition to drive or operate any type of machinery besides that 9mm you're guaranteed to be packing somewhere, and you need to get this jackass, because if he touches Brittany, I swear to God I'll kick _your _ass for being such a pathetic mess that you couldn't stop it."

Blinking incredulously, Santana inwardly buffs herself up and nods. Not only is Rachel right, but so is Quinn. _Jesus, _since when did they become the all knowing couple of Alaska? If they weren't unbearable enough, they sure are going to be now. When Brittany's back, and everyone's safe, she knows that this is going to come back and bite her in the ass.

"Fine," she bites back the irrational urge to last out at something or someone. "Evans, we're going. _Now."_

Quinn and Rachel are wise enough not to make a smart-ass comment as Santana leaves.

* * *

><p>"How are we gonna do this?" Sam asks when they slip outside the hospital entrance, clapping his hands together against the cold.<p>

Santana doesn't feel it. Not the cold. Not the frustration. Not the sadness. She's managed to put herself in the stone cold state where she can't feel anything. Somehow, she's done it. And right now, she's in no position to argue. The only way she's going to be able to play the damn cliché roll of being the good guy and saving the day, she needs not to let herself be emotionally effected.

Even though erasing her emotions is erasing Brittany, and she can't do that.

"What heat are we packing in the SUV's?"

Sam furrows his brows, but answers anyway. "We've got two 9mm's and two magazines in this SUV," he points the key towards the car and it opens, orange side lights flashing.

Santana pauses in her step, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean in _this _SUV_?_"

"I mean that... The one Puck took..." he trails off, eyes flickering down like he doesn't want to finish the sentence.

But she lurches forward, grabbing his shoulder and halting his movement, spinning him until they're facing each other. "What does the other one have?"

Sam glances down at his feet scuffing along the pavement. "Two shotguns and a Desert Eagle," he replies quickly, his tone tinged with disdain and loss of hope.

Every inch of hope dissolves in that instant. Something heavy and freezing cold drops in Santana's stomach and she ducks her head, sucking her lips because there is no way, training or not, she's going to be able to get to Puck if he's shooting at her with that fire power.

The logical part of her knows that.

But she doesn't care. Not with Brittany on the line. _Fuck _logic when the love of her life is in harms way.

"Give me the guns," she says, flexing her fingers after offering out her hand. Sam eyes her skeptically so she continues with a little more aggression. "Give me the _fucking_ guns, Evans."

Fear flashes behind his eyes. But he nods curtly and reaches into the back seat, before returning with two 9mm pistols and two full magazines. He hands them over, tightening the muscles in his jaw because it's pretty clear even without verbalising it how much he _doesn't _want her to go, or go with her for that matter.

She'll be damned if that stops her.

Yanking open the door, she climbs in the drivers seat and waits. Quinn did say she shouldn't drive. But she knows that anyone else driving would irritate her, and at least she can put the pedal to the metal and know _personally _she's going as fast as possible.

About thirty seconds later, she leans across the console to open the passenger door, pushing it with her fist enough to make eye contact with her colleague. "Are you coming or not?"

"There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't," Sam starts with a sentence that will probably be deemed film-worthy. "But I'm not going to name them." Okay, maybe not. "Because ultimately we're all in this together, and I'll stay by your side til the end."

She nods, trying to hide the grateful smile playing at her lips. Mulling over the words in her head, she tries to imagine some type of epic music in the background, or how they should bump fists or hug or some noble shit to signify the start of the end. But then Sam slides into the seat, clicking in his seat belt and breaks her from her thoughts. After all, there are much more pressing matters to be attending to rather than some stupid imaginary movie.

"Let's get going Troy Bolton," she says, switching on the ignition and yanking the car into gear. "Let's go get this asshole."

* * *

><p>"He wouldn't go to a State Park," Santana says, mostly to herself, as she drums her fingertips furiously along the top of the steering wheel. "That's too obvious. Too much attention."<p>

Sam nods in her peripheral vision. "So where would he go?"

It's a good question. Santana knows just how clever Puck is. Well, no she does. Now she knows how sneaky and conniving he is. For months he's been able to fool the people that she thought knew him best. For months he's been playing the part of the good guy, and somehow managing to frame someone, to the point that they were actually fucking arrested.

Although, that does bring a thought to her mind. If Puck was in the limo with her when they were chased, who the hell was driving the other car?

"Somewhere subtle. Somewhere easy. Quiet." She narrows her eyes, trying to imagine somewhere resembling her own description on the map in the boot of the car. "Somewhere no-one can get him until he's in the clear for a few days."

Only guessing, she tries to think of all the damn places that were next to Anchorage on the map. The State Park – but that's like a million miles wide – the airstrip, Fort Richardson... and then there's...

"The abandoned airstrip."

Sam turns in his seat, arm lugging over the back of it. "What about it?"

"The abandoned airstrip," she repeats, her mind wandering. "Air strips always have those big ass warehouses."

"Wouldn't that be a bit-"

"Cliché?" Santana cuts in, fists tightening around the wheel. "Yeah," she nods. "But that's Puck. He would think that was _too _obvious, and therefore he'd assume we wouldn't go there."

Confused, Sam arches a brow.

"Reverse psychology," she elaborates, the ball of her foot pushing down a little harder on the accelerator. "Puck's clever and yet dumb enough to do that."

It's not totally surprising that Sam's confused. Even she's not totally aware that what she's saying makes sense. But inside her head it does, she hopes. Inside her head, there's theories, plots, methods, all types of plans of what's going to go down in the next hour. There are so many possibilities...

"And so many things that could go wrong," she says out loud.

"We're in this together, Santana." Sam lifts his hand and puts it over hers, placed on the gear shift. The immediate reaction to snap her hand away is there, but she knows he's just being comforting. She's just a little on edge – to say the least. "Britt'll be fine."

There mere mention of her girlfriend's name shoots down her spine and makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand. The accelerometer is inching further and further towards 100mph now, but Santana's just gritting her teeth and trying not to plan a million different ways to tear Puck piece by piece, and torture him (literally) excruciatingly painfully.

Bamboo splinters underneath his fingernails seems a good place to start.

"Yeah," Brittany bites out, blinking away the tears that prick at the back of her eyes. She can't even begin to imagine a world where Brittany doesn't exist. She can't even begin to think of what she'd do if she got there and found Brittany pale and lifeless. Her mind won't even stretch as far as wondering how long she'll have before the police turn up, so she can carve Puck into tiny little pieces if Brittany has so much of a scratch on her. "She better be."

Sam just stays quiet.

* * *

><p>"<em>San? Do we still have that first aid kit?"<em>

_Santana dropped the magazine to her lap, nudging her glasses further down her nose as she turned towards the bathroom. It was one of those rare time where neither of them had a lecture to attend, and so far they'd been content just basking in each other's company in the comfort of their dorm. Santana had been reading a magazine for the past ten minutes whilst Brittany had a shower, and 'The Lady and the Tramp' was already in the DVD player – ready for them to watch when Brittany got out._

"_Yeah, it's under the sink."_

"_Thank you!"_

_She picked up the magazine again, barely even processing her girlfriend's words. When she read through them again in her mind, she picked up on first aid and began to panic. Dropping her reading material, she practically sprang out of bed and darted towards the bathroom door. Her legs were moving so fast she nearly ran straight into the door frame._

_Brittany was standing in just a towel in front of the mirror, the first aid kit spread out in front of her and a piece of paper held close to her face. Sensing Santana's presence, Brittany twisted her head and looked at Santana innocently._

"_What's wrong?" Santana asked, slightly breathless. She really shouldn't have eaten those last three Twinkies. "Did you hurt yourself?"_

_Brittany dropped the piece of paper, eyebrows furrowing. "I just cut myself shaving," she shrugged, lifting her foot and pressing it to the lid of the toilet seat – band aid in hand. "Nothing big."_

_Hand pressed to her chest, Santana sucked in a deep breath and ducked her head. Irrational thoughts like Brittany somehow managing so slice open an artery or maybe her tripping over the hair dryer cord and knocking herself out on the bath did run through her mind._

"_You scared the crap out of me," Santana mumbled, chin tucked to her chest._

_Brittany rubbed her thumb over the back of the plaster she just applied to her ankle and moved her foot to the floor, before walking towards Santana. "It's not like I knocked myself out on the edge of the tub, San."_

_Inhaling deeply, Santana straightened up and threaded their fingers together. "I know," she shook her head. "But you could've."_

"_So I knocked myself out and then called out to you and asked where the first aid kit was?"_

_Narrowing her eyes, Santana glanced up, noting the small smirk on her girlfriends face. "Oh..." She hadn't quite thought of that. "Didn't think about that."_

_Brittany leant down, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. "See? I'm fine. You're just being silly."_

"_I just..." _

"_You just what?" Brittany tilted her chin up until their eyes locked._

"_I just don't like seeing you hurt."_

_Brittany let out a small chuckle. "It's a small cut, baby. It'll be gone by next week. It barely even hurts anyway."_

"_I know," Santana rubbed her thumb over the back of soft knuckles. "Still."_

"_You can't protect me from everything, San."_

_Santana nodded. She couldn't. That was just impossible. But there was no way in hell if she could prevent it that she wouldn't. "I can try."_

"_You're so cute."_

_Santana grinned, sliding one arm around Brittany's waist and the other into the front of the towel. The moment her fingers came in contact with soft, creamy skin, a low vibrating moan echoed through her throat and her eyes fluttered shut. "And you're beautiful."_

_Brittany arched a brow, eyes flashing dangerously. "Oh, yeah?" She wrapped her arms around Santana's neck and pulled until their was barely any space between them and their foreheads were touching._

_Feeling the arousal shoot through her body as her fingers skated up the delicate skin of Brittany's ribs, feeling every muscle rippled underneath her touch, she bit her lip and nodded. "Uh, huh. But maybe if we never left this room," she pushed up onto the balls of her feet to minimise the gap between their lips. "I wouldn't have to protect you."_

"_Mmmm," Brittany hummed as lips ghosted over her own. "I like the sound of that."_

_Each word imprinted against Santana's top lip. "Awesome," Santana smiled as her lips barely brushed against Brittany's._

_Brittany managed to whisper, "Awesome," a second before they kissed, hot and opened mouthed._

_Safe to say they didn't leave the bathroom for a while._

* * *

><p>The air's thick and musky with the scent of abandonment and rusting metal. The sky's dark, the moonlight barely illuminating the deserted runway and the whole place looking generally desolate. There's a strange purple tint to the sky and she can just imagine the comedic value of it raining right now. Would just add to the melancholy of the situation.<p>

It's definitely the right place, though. If it wasn't for the itching at the back of her neck, or the chill running through to her very core, it would definitely be confirmed by bonnet of the glinting SUV sticking around the side of the warehouse.

"You think he's in there?"

Santana nods, switching off the ignition and listening to the eery nothingness outside the car. "He's there."

Sam reaches behind them, grabbing the duffel bag with the guns inside and pulls it onto his lap. Unzipping it, he hands over one 9mm and a magazine, which she pockets, and then takes his own. She checks her gun, cocking it and loading making sure everything's in working order. Hopefully she won't have to use it. Shooting Puck won't be nearly as satisfying as torturing him.

"You ready?"

Pulse thudding loudly in her ears, and stoic expression pasted on her face, she nods sternly. "As ready as I'll ever be."

They both jump out the car, making sure to shut the door with a quiet thump as anything louder would let Puck know they're here. Last thing she needs if all of this goes to shit is for her to know that it was because of her doing things wrong that sent it that way. She has enough to worry about without needing added guilt.

Not that there'd be much to consider if things went wrong. If Brittany died, Santana would be following soon after. By her own means or whatever else.

"How do you wanna do this?" Sam asks, straightening his arm at the elbow and grasping the edge of his hand with his spare.

Santana bends her knees, moving swiftly across the lot until her back is pressed to the flimsy rusting wall of the warehouse. Sam sidles up beside her in a similar position, both of them panting heavily. It's not from lack of fitness, it's from the adrenaline pulsing through their veins. Although she's pretty sure hers is mixed with nerves, whilst his is mixed with excitement. It kind of makes her want to punch him.

"If he thinks I'm alone, he might give it more of a chance. You hold up here for a while."

"How will I know if you need me?"

She can barely think with the sound of her heart beat, but she swallows against a thickened throat and flickers her eyes around the darkness of the runway before returning back to Sam. "If you hear the word _alpha, _slip in through the back and we'll see if we can corner him."

Sam nods and they both stare at each other for long seconds before he nods sternly, jaw clenched and silently conveys the best of luck towards her with his eyes. She gets it, and if it weren't for the years of training she'd probably hug him right now and thank him for his presence. Stable is not something she can do alone when it comes to Brittany.

"See you in a few," Sam says in a very 'Sam' manner. Trying to lighten the worst of situations.

A small smile tugs at her lips, but soon disappears as she slides along the wall towards the entrance.

* * *

><p>"<em>Okay, okay. I surrender." <em>

_Brittany pressed their intertwined fingers to the headboard above Santana's head, grinning down at her devilishly. Santana ran her hands up the length of her girlfriend's thighs, which were bracketing her hips and smiled back up. For the past five minutes they'd been having a full blown tickle attack in which they'd flipped, nearly fell off the bed, shared sloppy kisses and nipped at each other's skin playfully. _

_However Brittany got the upper hand when she leant down and pressed her lips to Santana's, tilting her head to deepen the kiss as her tongue pushed past pouty lips, licking the roof of Santana's mouth and curling around sharp white teeth. Obviously that was enough of a distraction and Brittany smirked and then flipped their bodies once more until she won. Santana didn't even try to fight it because she was pretty much punch drunk from that kiss. Only aching for more after the kiss broke._

"_Even though you were totally cheating."_

_Brittany just smiled, fluttering her eyelashes. It was ridiculous how innocent she could look, considering Santana knew how un-innocent Brittany looked when she had fingers buried knuckle deep inside of her and tongues doing unimaginable things. The blonde shrugged, pecking the tip of Santana's nose and then sat up, hands trailing over caramel shoulders, down the valley of a sport-bra cladded breasts and then finally resting on twitching abs._

"_Still won," Brittany shrugged as caramel fingers danced up the inside of her thighs. "Sucker."_

"_By cheating."_

_Brittany lifted her arms and crossed them, shrugging. "I stand by my point."_

_Smiling, Santana replied, "You're such a dork."_

"_And you're a dork who's late for your lecture."_

_As soon as Santana managed to take the focus off her fingers trailing across the slither of skin showing between Brittany's tank top and leggings, she practically threw her girlfriend off her and lunged off the bed. Scrabbling around to find her clothes, she slipped anything she could find on and spared a glance at the clock._

"_Shit! It's 2pm already! I'm late by like ten minutes!"_

_Brittany laughed from the bed, twirling a lock of blonde hair between her thumb and forefinger. "Not my fault."_

_Santana snapped her head around and glared. "_Totally _your fault."_

"_You just can't resist me."_

_Tying up her hair into a high pony, she applied a thin layer of lip gloss and smacked her lips together before turning and heading for the bed. She quickly reached over, bracing herself on the bed of Brittany's hips and leant down to close the distance between their lips. _

"_Now that _is _your fault," she murmured as she pressed their lips together and kissed her girlfriend deeply, tongue sliding along the rim of Brittany's bottom lip and then teeth nipping it lightly._

_Brittany broke the kiss and pushed her playfully, but still enough for her to get the point. If they kissed for any longer, Professor Rosenstein would definitely have one less student in his class. She didn't think he would take very kindly to her excuse of 'making out with my super hot girlfriend.' _

"_Now go," Brittany ordered, thrusting her finger out and pouting slightly. "Before I give you a reason to stay."_

_Santana grinned and stood from the bed. "Baby, I already have a reason to stay."_

_Brittany scrunched her nose, eyes trailing her girlfriend's movement. "Dork."_

"_You love me," Santana replied quickly, opening the door and pausing to turn around. "See you in a few."_

_A kiss was blown her way before Brittany replied with; "See you in a few, baby."_

_She'd been right. Professor Rosenstein wasn't too pleased with her excuse._

* * *

><p>Without the aid of the moonlight, the inside of the warehouse is barely visible. She can barely make out the few stray boxes in the corners, but she can see the broken window in the back right hand corner where a shotgun's laying propped up beside it. It feels like her heart is about to jump out her chest and throat's swelling about four times it's normal size.<p>

The warehouse area is vast, though. With the added lack of objects inside, it just makes it even bigger and she knows that with one step inside, Puck could scope her out and take her down with a single shot. She's not going to take that risk even if the muscles in her leg are burning with the need to run over to the shotgun and grab it, just to make her feel a little safer knowing she has the bigger weapon. Not to mention the innate urge to find Brittany.

But slow and steady wins the race. At least that's what she tells herself.

She has a choice. Either she can walk through, guns blazing, or she can try the calm route – despite her entire being yelling at her to rip Puck a new one. She makes a decision.

Tucking the 9mm into the space between the small of her back and jeans, she raises both hands and begins to walk slowly into the centre of the warehouse. It takes a minute to actually get there, considering the side of the space, but she knows if Puck's noticed her presence, he can definitely see her by now.

"Puckerman!" she yells, wincing at the echo that makes the creepy tingling crawl further up her spine. "I'm here."

A dark chuckle comes shortly after, and thanks to the damn echo she doesn't know where it came from. Puckermans voice follows only shortly after. "Lopez, you got here later than I expected."

"You were expecting me." It comes out more like a statement than a sentence. Why would she have thought any different? Puck's been a smart ass so far, so why would she have thought her chasing after a missing Brittany wouldn't be the first thing she'd do when she discovered the lack of blonde in her life.

"Obviously." Then he steps out. Around a foot or two away from the shotgun with a smirk on his face. One big enough that even the darkness can't hide it. "Wherever Britt is you're only seconds behind."

Santana's fingers flex with the urge to snap out her gun and fire a round into Puck's chest. But right now she doesn't know where Brittany is, and until she does Puck has to stay talking. "Where is she?"

"What is it with you?"

Gritting her teeth, Santana steps forward, watching Puck mirror her movement. "What?"

"With you and Britt," he sweeps his hand out in an arc around him. She notices the Desert Eagle shifting in his hand. "You're always wanting to be near her, or to be with her."

A snarl tears at her lips, anger bubbling at the back of her throat. "She's min-," she stops herself before she says _mine. _"She's _my_ girlfriend."

Puck smirks. "Is she though?"

"Yes." The answer is immediate. There's no doubt. Santana's always been Brittany's. No matter how far apart they may have been, their hearts have always been intertwined and tethered together with an unbreakable question.

"So she officiallygave herself to you?" Puck steps further towards her, the smirk growing as his dark green eyes twinkle with a dangerous spark. "She's _said _she's your girlfriend, has she?"

Santana knows his game. He's trying to get inside her head and fuck her up psychologically so he can take her down physically with barely a single blow. She knows how he's going to do this. The gun in his hand doesn't even have the safety switched off. He's close enough now that she can see that.

"You're not going to get to me, Puckerman." The words come out triumphantly. Weakness isn't something she needs now. "Me and Britt, we're soul mates. Our time together, in the past or recent, has done nothing but prove it." She watches his features twist with jealousy and anger.

Everything's so quiet apart from their ragged breathing and the sound of the gun turning in his palm. He's staring at her with a devilish glare, his eyes piercing and sharp. All he needs now is to snarl and it'll be like a werewolf about to transform. She knows how to turn the tables, and now she no longer feels fear, anxiety or anything apart from the obvious effect her words are having on Puck.

"Why did you do this?" She asks, crossing one leg over the other as she moves in an arc like a predator stalking it's prey.

Except Puck doesn't move. He's just as good as she is, if not better. That's the thing that's creeping up her spine, the lack of knowing how good Puck really is. His skills aren't known, and judging by his performance so far – it's on par with her own skills.

"Don't try and turn the tables, Lopez. But if I must indulge you," he shifts his gun around in his hand, watching the movement before looking back at Santana. "You and Brittany, my dear, _dear _Brittany-"

She keeps her features stoic, despite the acidic venom swelling at the tip of her tongue.

"-She's everything that I've ever wanted, and everything you've never _truly _appreciated."

Her hand nearly snaps to the gun as her feet slow down. The words sink into her skin like venomous teeth and she feels the sting instantly. She knows what he's talking about. _Damn, _she's practically kicked herself everyday for not coming back for Brittany sooner – even though she had no idea she was supposed too.

"You and Brittany have what I want."

Santana stops completely, hands falling to her thighs and twitching with need.

Puck begins the predatory circle, moving around her with the gun waving around precariously. "And you have it with who I want to have it with."

She swallows against the rag, still with no knowledge of where Brittany is. Her eyes flicker around quickly, noting the small room in the back and the dark corner where the light is restricting her from seeing anything. Brittany could be anywhere in this fucking place. In any dark corner. Behind any box. Inside any room. _Anywhere._

"You could just never let her go, could you?" Puck asks, darkly, a snarl ripping at his upper lip. "Even when your chance was gone, and I was so close to being with her. You just had to pop up again."

Santana narrows her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing as her nostrils flare. The gun tucked between her pants and back is burning her skin, the heat increasing with every word Puckerman speaks. It's like there's a direct line between his mouth and the gun, or maybe it's just because every time his fucking lips form a word, she just wants to shove the head of her gun in between his teeth and watch the light fade out his eyes as she blows a hole into the back of his head.

"Brittany was sweet..." his face lightens as she watches eyes cloud over with a distant memory. "Especially after our little night together in high school. We were _so _close-"

For a split second, she wonders how long Brittany was around Puck before she turned up. And whether if it wasn't for her presence, what would've become of the two.

"-But you turned up and she turned me down in favour of," he's about three feet to her right now, the distance disappearing as he stalks forward. He leans in when he gets to her, his hot breath blanketing the entirely of the right side of her face and making her pulse spike with fury. "_You."_

Santana grits her teeth together, the muscles in her jaw tightening as she restrains the urge to give in to the anger biting at her body. "You don't have her."

Lifting his hand, he points towards the back door, the small room at the back of the warehouse and smirks. "I think different."

And now she knows where Brittany is. Maybe Puck's not that smart after all.

Narrowing her eyes, she twists her head until their noses are barely inches apart. "She wants _me, _Noah," she grits out. "Not you."

Hurt, jealousy, anger and a range of different emotions flicker through his eyes as he straightens up. She feels him weakening by the second, the atmosphere sinking as she slowly tears him piece by piece. If she learnt anything from high school, it was the ability to tear people down emotionally, to knock their confidence and knowledge until they're nothing but a shrivelling mess. The army taught her to do it physically, but with Puck's size, she doesn't know whether she could _actually _take him.

But she's willing to give it a fucking good go.

Knowing this is her opportunity, she throws her fist around in a full circle, landing on the edge of Puck's temple – a spot she knows is a knock-out zone. With a single punch, and possibly a broken knuckle, he topples over like a building being torn down and a loud thud echoes through the room as his body collides with the ground.

She exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding and her eyes widen.

_It's over, _she thinks, smiling triumphantly. Her eyes dart towards the back room and her legs follow only seconds later. Somewhere she yells for Sam, and footsteps tell her he's in the room watching over Puck – so she speeds up and heads for the back room.

Bursting through the door, her chest lights and she drops to her knees in front of Brittany – who's bound and gagged in the centre of the room. Her cheeks tinted with drying tears and eyes blood shot from fear and uncertainty.

"Britt," she breathes, reaching around to slip the gag out of Brittany's mouth, then moving down to the fabric tying her hands together. "I'm here, I got you."

Brittany falls limp into waiting arms, sobbing and whimpering loudly as her fingers clutch around the material of Santana's shirt. "S-San..."

"I know, baby." Santana presses tender kisses to the crown of Brittany's head and runs her hands through blonde locks. "I'm here. I got you."

They stay there for a good five minutes.

* * *

><p>It takes a while, but she manages to usher Brittany up and they both stagger towards the door, salty tears drying on their cheeks. By now, Puck will be regaining consciousness and Sam won't be able to handle him on his own, so cradling her arm around the other girl's waist, she lumbers them over the threshold and back into the vacant space of the warehouse.<p>

"Sam get the ca-"

Puck's laugh breaks her sentence and she snaps her head up. He's standing in the centre of the room, gun cocked and barrel pressed to Sam's temple. Smirking, he twists the gun and she watches Sam's face etch with fear and slight pain, before speaking.

"Sam's a little preoccupied at the moment."

Santana sucks in a sharp breath, eyes darting from Puck, to Sam, to Brittany and then round again. "Let him go, Puckerman," she demands. "He's done nothing wrong."

"Well you see," Puck wraps his arm around Sam's neck, forearm pressing into the guy's jugular hard. Sam winces visibly, arms scrabbling at tanned arms to loosen the pressure, but Puck doesn't give up. He just squeezes a little harder. "If you hadn't sucker punched me then we wouldn't be in this situation right now."

She rejects the urge to smile at the thread of satisfaction that courses through her at the sight of his slightly swelling eye. "Sam has nothing to do with it. Just let him go."

"Let Britt go and we have a deal," Puck cocks his head.

There's no way in hell she's going to do that, and she knows how away of that Puck is. He's trying to play a game, and now as she grips Brittany's body tighter against her own, she realizes for the first time that she doesn't know how to win.

Gritting her teeth at the anger pulsing through her veins, she bites out;"What do you want, Puckerman?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Puck begins the predatory circle again, holding Sam close against him. "I want Brittany."

Santana winces.

"Ever since I got my little _taste-" _his eyes glimmer devilishly. "-in high school, I want more."

Piping hot jealously pours through her veins, spiking her senses and making her mouth twitch with the beginnings of a ripping snarl. She remembers the day she found out that Brittany slept with Puck. She remembers the way he smirked at her, and how Brittany didn't know how to explain it. The way jealousy, pain and hurt all stung her body when she looked towards her best friend to try and find the denial in her best friends eyes. But it never came.

Even now, she hates that he has that power over both of them.

"You were almost as good as her," he continues, smirking. "But she just worked all the right places."

She feels Brittany stiffen in her arms and the hands on her biceps squeeze a little harder. It's one of his tactics, to try and weaken her. He used it throughout high school before a big game. Call out the opposing football team on their low points and then at their weakest, he'd strike. Therefore winning the game. And up until now she's never been on the receiving end... But she can see how it works and the worst part is she doesn't know how to fight it without violence.

"Shame she doesn't want you then, isn't it?" Santana hisses, inwardly smirking at her ability to restrain lashing out. "So just take your leave, Noah. You're not wanted."

It's a dangerous move. One she knows she shouldn't have made as soon as the words escaped her lips. Puck's eyes narrow dangerously, and the barrel of the gun presses deeper into Sam's temple until she swears she sees a little blood seep from broken skin. Her hands grip a little tighter on Brittany, and when she sees Puck's hand twitch, she moves in front of the other girl and shields her.

"How about we do this the proper way?" His lip curls into a half-snarl. "The chivalrous way."

Santana takes a step to the left, which Puck mirrors, but to the right. They're now moving in a slow arc once more. "Care to elaborate?"

"If we fight for the girl, then we should do it properly," he brings his hand back, throwing it down and smacking Sam on the back with it. The blonde man falls forward, face planting the concrete floor and rolling out to the side. "Man to man-" he shrugs. "-ish."

Sam stays still, but Santana can see his eyes still blinking. He's at an angle that only she can see, and a moment of hesitation causes everything to slow down.

If she fights Puck, hand to hand, then there's a good space in which Sam can get Brittany the fuck away from here. Back to the house. Back to safety. Although that does mean she'd actually have to endure fighting Puck until that point. It's not like she wouldn't be able to do a good fucking job of kicking Puckerman's ass... it's just that he's dangerous. And with the added antagonizing of them beating each other up for Brittany... She doesn't know how much damage he can do.

But if she doesn't fight him, then she doesn't know what he'll do. With a single shot he could eliminate Santana, grab Brittany, then kill Sam and have his way with the blonde girl. Not to mention the fact that if she accepts the fighting proposal, and she loses, Puck will resort to killing her and Sam anyway.

Either way, she'll lose.

Leaning down, and meeting terrified blue eyes staring up at her, she presses a lingering kiss to the flat of Brittany's forehead. She turns the blonde girl until she can grip at Brittany's shoulders and says, "As soon as I have him preoccupied I need you to run."

"Come on, Lopez." Puck says loudly, shrugging off his blazer in her peripheral vision.

Her eyes snap to him, then back again to Brittany who's shaking her head violently. "Sam's down, but he's not out. Grab him, the SUV is out the front," she whispers the words fast and gulps loudly. "Just drive as fast as you can away from here. Do you understand?"

Brittany looks at her with feared blue eyes. "N-no, San, I won't lea-"

"You _have _too," Santana grips the girls arms tighter. "You have to go. I won't be able to hold him for long but enough time for you to get away from here."

Brittany shakes her head violently, tears streaming down her face. "No, S-San, I won't l-leave you."

But Santana pulls back, stepping away and ushering the other girl towards Sam. She feels a small smile tug at her lips, one that isn't due to happiness or joy, it's from realization. Brittany brows furrow as Sam crawls to his feet groggily, grabbing the blonde girl by the waist and leaning into her. The smack to the back of the neck would be enough to render Sam incapable of making any quick movements. One of Puck's tactics, she thinks.

"You have too," she smiles sadly as the repeated words escape her lips. "This is my job."

Brittany's face falls and then it's all there. The one thing that brought them together. The one thing that had been keeping them apart has now brought them together closer than ever. This job has been to thank for the renewal of their relationship, and without it, she'd still be stuck at home in Lima, wallowing over an injured hand and a ruined career. This is what she's here for, and now she sees it.

"I'm your bodyguard," Santana says with finality as she takes a step towards Puck.

A violent sob escapes Brittany's lips as she lurches towards Santana, but Sam has enough strength to hold her back and Santana turns away before she can see the struggle of Brittany wanting to get to her, but nothing being able too. She can't even look her girlfriend in the eye. Not when she doesn't know when she'll hold Brittany again, or kiss her, or even see her. She doesn't know what Puck holds in store. Or what Puck's capable of and the thought pains her to her very core.

But she needs to do this. Brittany never would've come back into her life if she hadn't got this job. And if she's going out on a sore note, she's sure as hell going to go with a finished task. Santana's never been one for leaving things incomplete.

"Go." Santana demands, rolling her shoulders and trying to limber up. "Just go."

Taking steps towards a smirking Puckerman, she sucks in a deep breath and readies herself.

She doesn't know whether she's going to come out of this alive.

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><p><strong>Any comments are welcomed!<strong>


	18. chapter seventeen

**Sorry for the wait again! But it wasn't too long this time!**

**Anyway, just thought I'd write a quick A/N to tell ya'll that this is the second to last chapter. Which means the next is the last, in case you weren't quite sure what I meant. Not that you're stooooopid, but yeah. Just sayin'.**

_**Wow I'm getting off track here**_

**So yeah, you have no idea how happy you guys make me when you review and comment! All your feedback has been amazing so far and if you've stayed with me (despite the ridiculously long hiatus) THANK YOU! **

**Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

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><p><strong>Title: <strong>The Bodyguard [Chapter Seventeen]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I own nothing.  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>7.1k

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><p>She's not stupid or naïve enough to think that she actually has a chance in beating him.<p>

All she knows is she'll put up enough of a struggle to create a distraction for Brittany and Sam to run to the car and get away, without her. She doesn't want to leave Brittany, but this is what she came to do, and if sacrificing herself means completing her task and keeping Brittany safe... She's sure as hell going to do it.

Puck's grinning at her evilly when she steps towards him, shrugging out of her jacket to leave her in a tight white tank top and dirty jeans. He's dressed in a similar attire, except he looks about ten times bigger because, well, he _is _ten times bigger.

His arm muscles ripple as he stretches his arms above his head, then brings them in front of his face boxer-stance and jabs into the air. Santana's always been strong, even if she looks scrawny, but she knows she's not as strong as Puck is. Even years of training in the army couldn't build her up to match with his strength. It's just not in her genes.

"I beat you, I get Brittany." Puck smirks, completely unaware of her plan to get Brittany and Sam to run as soon as the first punch is thrown. "You beat me and..." he scoffs quietly. "I'm not even going to bother finishing that one."

Santana gulps, but keeps her features stoic because if she shows weakness, Puck's already won.

"Don't fool yourself Puckerman. You won't even get near her," she snarls. The words ripping past her teeth.

Glancing over her shoulder, she watches as Brittany curls into Sam's shoulder, her knees buckling and tears continuing to pour in streams out her eyes. They both fall to the floor in the corner, Sam's eyes apologetic and face strained as he latches onto the blonde girl and holds on for dear life. Brittany possesses unknown strength and Santana only knows how hard it must be for Sam to keep a hold of her. Physically, it pains Santana to see her girlfriend like this. In so much pain. It pains her to have to look away from the silent plea in blue eyes, begging her to just give it up and walk away.

But it's for Brittany's safety. Santana knows this, and there's no chance even if she wanted to walk away that Puck would let her. At least Brittany can get away, though. Sam too.

"If they try to run, I'll hunt them down and kill them." Plan flying out the window, she twists her body back to face Puck and sees the dangerous fire burning in his hazel eyes. It's almost like he sensed her thoughts and that single idea sends a spiral of panic through her body.

Back when they were teenagers she used to see the exact same burning sensation back when they used to play fight. Except after that last time when he lashed out, she never thought or wanted to touch him again. Now she knows why.

"You can't defend her all the time, Lopez."

Puck steps to the side, circling her to edge towards Brittany. But she meets his step, body half blocking his even though they're a good few metres away. They begin a steady dance, matching and meeting each other's steps so neither can quite get past. Santana remains with Brittany and Sam behind her, still not moving from their place and Puck keeps trying to get past and get the upper hand. She doesn't let him though. At least she has the ability to dance on her side.

"You're weak."

Santana feels her muscles recoil in reaction, fists clenching. Puck's eyes slide down to the movement and he moves his foot to step towards her. It's like there's a rubber band inside of her, stretching and ready to snap. It's been doing it for so long that she's actually quite surprised she's lasted this long. As soon as his palm grips her bicep, the rubber band snaps and her left arm lets loose.

A burst of adrenaline rushes through her as she watches Puck dodge her first punch, his eyes widening with shock. _Good, _she thinks. He wasn't expecting her to make the first move. She hears Brittany gasp behind her lowly and for a split second she loses concentration. With Puck in such close range, he grabs her hair and yanks _hard. _She yelps out, gritting her teeth as his still clenched fist (her hair inside) moves down and twists until he's staring at her, their finches merely inches away.

She wonders how he even got so close to her without her knowing.

"You can't beat me," his whispers as his smirk broadens.

Whipping her hand up to grab at the hand in her hair, she pulls, ignoring the sting of a few of her hairs being pulled out in the process and tightens both fists around his wrist. His face contorts with pain when Santana snaps his arm back at the wrong angle, a satisfying crack emanating from the movement. One of his knees buckle and she places a swift kick to his calf, making his leg collapse until he's kneeling on the floor, his strangely bent wrist still in her grasp.

"Fuck you, Puckerman." Santana bites out the words, feeling venom practically drip from her teeth as she stares down at the man.

"Been there, done that, babe." He winks and snarls and she throws a few punches to his face, landing on his nose, jaw, brow. Anywhere she can get a hold of. He sways a bit, and her feet move with lack of co-ordination as adrenaline fuels her punches and they become harder and harder. He's not expecting any of this, which just makes everything a hundred times more satisfying and she throws in a quick elbow to the nose to the flurry of punches. It's like she's a fucking machine as her punches just keep coming and coming, making him lose any power to protect himself.

This isn't a matter of strength, she realizes. This is a matter of who wants what more.

Puck wants Brittany. But Santana's been wanting Brittany for as long as she can remember. Santana wants Brittany and _needs _Brittany so much fucking more than he does. And the best part about that is, Brittany's wanted her back for the equal amount of time. Brittany needs her just as much as she needs Brittany. Never has the blonde ever wanted Puck. Not even when they slept together. And the sweet thread of satisfaction that pulses through her veins just adds extra power to each left hook.

With one well timed uppercut, Puck's lip practically splits in half underneath her knuckle and he cries out, staggering backwards until his legs hit the edge of a crate. Her fist is throbbing, aching and yelling for her to stop, but she can't feel the plea underneath the adrenaline pushing through her body. But he's too far away to land another punch, so she sucks in a few heavy pants and smirks back at him. The way he did too her when he thought she was too weak.

"You..." he pauses by taking in a heavy breath, and bringing his forearm up to wipe away the blood dripping onto his now stained tank top. Red smears across his skin, marking him and when he looks down, it's like someone just threw fuel onto a fire because something explodes inside of him and it reflects in his tensing muscles and the dangerous sparkle in his eyes. "Fucking_ bitch!"_

He throws himself forward, teeth bared and catching her off guard by throwing his fist into her ribs with his free hand four times. The blows echo through her chest, paining her and she wheezes out when one particular punch lands squarely in her chest. Her entire body bowing back and stumbling back a few staggered steps. Puck practically lurches from the floor, rushing forward and tilts her chin up.

She doesn't even see his fist hurtling through the air until it's a second away from landing on her face. She manages to twist slightly so the blow lands on her cheek and jawline. But it still _fucking _hurts. He repeats once, twice, all the meanwhile with Brittany sobbing and gasping with each touch. However to her the bones and the crunching is nothing in volume compared to the sound of her girlfriend weeping over her which sounds like 100 decibels vibrating through her ear drum.

"Santana!" Sam yells, wheezing. "Fight back!"

There'd probably be an urge to scream _fuck off _towards the blonde man going through her if her mouth wasn't filled with the tang of metal and there wasn't a smirking guy kicking the crap out of her. She thinks back to the military training, squeezing her eyes shut as one particular punch sends her towards the floor, head banging against the concrete and sending a dull buzz through her ears.

_If you're on the ground aim for the legs and get them on the floor too_, Sargent St. James' voice rings through her mind.

Anger coursing through her body, and spurring her on, she snaps her hand out blindly, grabbing Puck's leg and tugging until she's in the correct distance to throw her other fist towards his crotch. A yelp escapes his lips and she repeats, punching him a few more times in the groin until his fist stop hurtling towards his face and both hands snatch at her wrists.

It's her downfall really, because now she's at the right level for him to drive his knee directly into her face. And he does. It feels like she just got hit by an 18 wheeler, knocked to the floor and then reversed over a few more times. Brittany's cry echoes through her ears, but she barely even notices as everything slows down and the distinct feeling of the back of her skull hitting the concrete floor registers somewhere inside her mind.

"You've never been able to beat me," he hisses through a whisper, finishing the sentence by crouching slightly, grabbing her by her hair and slamming her face against the cold concrete. Pain seers through her face, intensified a hundred times more than any of the punches he delivered and she feels something crack, as well as the side of her head split open.

"You're pathetic," he whispers an inch away from her face. Her eyes are wide enough and the moonlight is at the right angle for her to see the damage she's done to his face, despite her vision blurring already.

Both of his eyes are already swelling, purple-green shades colouring around them and along the right side of his jaw. A line of blood rolls from a gash above his brow and he wipes lazily at it. Probably because the flurry of punches she threw were enough to knock a normal man out, so Puck's got to be at least a little dizzy from the impact.

"You're pathetic," he says violently. The words dripping with aggression as he's crouched next to her body. "You actually thought you could beat me?"

Warm liquid trickles down her face and she coughs violently against the pain when he digs his thumb into the slice opened skin on her temple. She can already feel the swelling above her right eye, and can hear Sam trying to calm Brittany as she whimpers and muttered undecipherable things. An entire minute passes where she just observes her surroundings through her ears. Listening to the very faint sound of cars on the highway, and the single eagle cawing outside the warehouse. She can hear mice scuttling in the deepest corners of the structure, and the way Puck smirks when his breathing changes and lightens.

She tries to will herself. She tries to push her palms to the floor and move. But there's nothing. She can feel darkness clawing at the back of her mind and knows that if Puck delivers a few well-placed punches, she'll be alive no more. There won't be anyone to do her job. There won't be anyone to protect because she'll be sleeping with the fishes.

And Brittany will be alone again.

She knows Sam well enough to know the blonde guy will try to protect Brittany for as long as he can. But Puck doesn't exactly take pity, as she now knows by the damage done to herself, and if it's just Sam standing in the way between Brittany and him, a gun to the head will do. Puck has shit with Santana, not Sam. So as far as Puck's concerned, Sam's disposable.

Trying to use any strength or energy inside her body, she rolls, ignoring the intense throb in her ribs from the movement and splutters through a cough as she stares up at the ceiling. Puck's glaring down at her with a smirk that she _really _fucking wants to wipe off his face, but she knows just as well as he does how unable she is to do that.

Puck cocks a brow, curls the right side of his upper lip and lets out a small yet incredibly evil chuckle. "Did you _actually _think you could beat me?"

_No, _she didn't. In fact, she thought Brittany could have left by now, but that plan went to shit and now she has no idea of what's going to happen. She needs some kind of plan. She needs something that'll spark and idea in her head. Like in the movies. When something catches the main character's eye and a spur of ideas run through their mind or when someone unexpected comes barrelling through the door with a baseball bat and kicks the crap out the bad guy.

But she knows how much this _isn't _a movie, and how the only people who knows she's here are half-way across the country in LA. Not that Karofsky would ever stand up to Puck. Hell, no _sane _person should stand up to Puck. Especially when the guy has that fucking knowing smug smile on his face that creeps up Santana's spine and makes her fists clench and ache with the desire to punch someone.

Puck moves to his knees until he's merely inches away from her and then brushes away a lock of hair away from her sweating face, revealing more of her injuries that adds to his smirk. Brittany gasps, and Santana knows, even through her blurred vision that now she realises is probably due to swelling, the moonlight has hit her in the wrong place and now everything is illuminated to see. Even she herself can see her eyebrow hanging over her eye, the piece of flesh loose from it's original place. Or so she thinks anyway. Her mind's so light and dazed that she can barely tell which is left and which is right.

Something heavy lands on her chest, pressing onto her ribs and the spiking pain of broken bones shoots through her body. Her hands blindly grab at whatever it is, only to find a boot and what she images to be Puck's foot attached too it. An evil chuckle confirms her thoughts and she struggles, but opens her eyes to narrow them up at the man causing her excruciating pain.

"You couldn't even protect the one thing you always swore too," Puck shakes his head. "And now she's mine. So tell me," he digs his foot a little harder, and her fingers curl around the toe and heel of his boot, trying to pry it off with strength she doesn't possess. "How does it feel knowing you've done all this for nothing?"

Santana doesn't know what happens, or when it happens, all she knows is that a gun cocking rings above her ears and her head tilts to the side to meet the blue eyes boring into the side of her head a second before she expects a skull-shattering blast to go off. Except the blast never comes.

Instead, she feels the weight on her chest disappear, and her hands fall limply onto her chest as something whooshes above her, movement flurrying. Her heart clenches painfully tight, but then she feels soft, shaking hands gently cup her cheeks, thumbs wiping at the warm liquid she knows is covering the majority of her face and lets out a long breath she didn't know she was holding.

"S-San..." Brittany whimpers, body close enough for Santana to smell. "I-I'm h-h-here..."

Santana tries to smile, but spiralling pain echoes around her face and she flinches. "Britt?" she says through a cough.

She tries to figure out what the hell is going on, but Brittany's hands are on her skin now, and there's no Puck with a gun aimed at her head so it can't be all that bad. Well, that's what she thinks anyway. The sound of a bone cracking, something that isn't her own shoots straight through her ear drum, vibrating down her spine and crawling around her nerves. She's heard enough bone breaks to know that wasn't little. If anything, that was a limb and seeing as Brittany's next to her, and Puck's twice as big as Sam, it can't be good.

"Sam!" Brittany yelps, voice strained with the struggle between who to help.

Santana registers the sound of someone dropping heavily to the floor, their body slumping with dead weight and if she could, she'd wince. But there's too much pain radiating through her body that she's having a hard time reacting to anything else except Brittany and her own pain. Selfish, she knows. But she can't help it.

"Santana..." Brittany whimpers, and Santana winces at the tone of her voice. "Sam's..."

"Out of the picture," a deep voice cuts in,.She doesn't know what's going on, and her head is so fucking messed up that she can barely even register that exact thought, up until the point when Brittany's sharp scream pierces her ears and the heat of Brittany's body slips away, feet nudging at the side of Santana's thigh as Puck grunts loudly.

Panic sets through her, and she knows whatever the hell is happening isn't good. She has no strength. Or energy. And barely any life in her, but she can feel that Brittany's in danger. She knows it. And it makes her move. Her arms slump out, feeling heavier than a tonne of bricks and she groans at the excruciating pain searing through her head and body as she pushes against the floor. Somehow, and if it weren't for the continuous sound of Brittany screaming, she'd probably be amazed at how she's actually managing to move. But Brittany _is _screaming, and as she peels open her eyes, she notices Puck's figure about two foot away from her, with his arm stretching down and meeting the top of Brittany's head.

He's pulling her hair.

"Puckerman," Santana hisses, feeling the blood bubble inside her mouth. It's unflattering, but considering her whole appearance is more than that at the moment, she sucks in her cheeks, rolls the mixture of saliva and blood in her mouth and spits it out to her right. A trickle dribble down her chin, and with a heavy limb, she swipes it away with her hand and barely feels the moisture coat her skin.

Puck snaps his head up, eyes burning and snarl ripping across his face. "Can't you just fucking _die!" _ He yells, clawing at his own face whilst he grips a handful of blonde hair in his other. Brittany's kicking on the floor, crying furiously as her eyes are stricken with sheer pain and fear.

Santana rolls her jaw, feeling the joints click uncomfortably and puts as much effort as physically possible into slumping forward and twisting her legs underneath her, until she's kneeling on the floor with her hands resting palm down on the concrete. She instantly feels wet heat underneath her palms and wonders who's blood that is. She can't even focus enough to figure out how badly Sam's injured, but her mind is solely trained on Brittany. It's her job. Protect Brittany. Sam can handle himself., and it's probably a good thing if he's out cold.

"Get off her," she manages to get out, even though her voice is strained with exertion and anguish. "Just get the fuck off her."

The sound of a sharp slap, skin against skin, echoes through the warehouse and Santana hears the loud gasp catch in Brittany's throat. It does pass through her mind whether she's so dizzy that she may not be able to feel any pain, but when Puck laughs, she knows that slap wasn't delivered to her. Puck just slapped Brittany. Puckerman just fucking _hit _Brittany.

Anger surges through her body like a shot of adrenaline.

"Why make me come back!" She screams, digging her nails into the concrete. It hurts, but she doesn't really feel it. How could she with all these other injuries? "If you wanted her, why the fuck would you bring me back into this!"

It's not exactly what she expected to come out at all, but when she hears Puck's arms fly through the air, slapping at his thighs, and feels Brittany's body being thrown down next to her, she knows it's done the desired effect. Puck let go of her. _Stupid move. _

"Well despite all that's happened, I do have to admit you impressed me with your endurance."

Santana thinks she cocks a brow, but she's not sure. Her hand slides across the warm moisture on the floor until her pinky nudges at Brittany's hand. Fingers curl around her own and her entire body relaxes a little. Even if she's practically on all fours and Puck could probably end her with a single kick to the head.

"My plan was for you to come back, Brittany see how much of a mess she made and for you to scamper off like the little pussy you are."

Puck's been planning this from the beginning, she realizes as betrayal courses through her. She doesn't flinch though, nothing Puck does surprises her anymore.

"She would have become vulnerable, and come running back to me. Where I would have taken over obviously."

The last thing Santana expects herself to do, or to be able to do, is let out a small chuckle. One that isn't born from bitterness, or fear... But from genuine amusement. She can feels the corners of her eyes crinkle, the drying blood crack as her swollen lips pop open; loudening the laughter. Brittany shifts next to her, unsure of how to react to the strange outburst and Puck stiffens.

"It'd be wise of you not to laugh, Santana," he grits out; his tone reflecting the anger she can imagine shaking at his body. "You don't exactly have the upper hand."

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, she wipes at the corner of her lips; ignoring the throb and pushes until she's with her back straight, but still on her knees. She turns, slowly, and meets his dangerous glare that probably would scare her if she didn't have this single thought going through her head. It's amusing, and it just proves just how fucking stupid he was for thinking Brittany would ever choose him.

"You're pathetic," she spits out.

Puck tightens his fist and steps forward until she has to tilt her head back to look up at him. "What did you say?"

"I said..." she drags one foot up underneath her; so now she's in the proposing position and uses anything she has to push on the top of her thigh until she can stand tall.

Brittany's hands fall out to brace her in case she falls, but she squeezes her hand, pushing it away in a silent _move away _before tilting her chin up regally; not meeting his height, but standing close and tall enough to make him twitch with fear. No-one should be able to stand after the beating she's received, and even though right now she could probably break down and cry from the pain she feels, the effect she wished to have has come true. Puck's concerned by her strength.

"..._You're pathetic_," she whispers; like it's a stage secret and manages a smirk to her broken and bruised face.

Puck curls both sides of his upper lips. "Am I now?" He asks; probably in a rhetorical question, but she answers anyway.

"Your plan," she breathes out, her voice cracking from pain. "Involved having to _trick-" _she inhales sharply; because she's pretty sure a broken rib is poking into her lung and it's causing a shortness of breath. "-Brittany into wanting you."

Puck's face falls. It spurs Santana on.

"You knew," she licks her lips; tasting blood. "You knew that there would be no other way-" deep breath. "-That she would want you... So you had to _trick _her."

Tilting her head to the side, she hears her neck click and repeats in the other direction; causing a dramatic pause that she knows helps. It's just makes the words sink in to his brain slowly and painfully because he knows, she knows, and Brittany sure as hell knows that those were his intentions. He had nothing else to go on; so he used her naivety. It's not like she's stupid... Because she sure as hell isn't. It's just sometimes Brittany gets into situations she can't handle because she doesn't see the bad side in people; or the ugly side. For years she never saw it in Santana... Until she went and proved Brittany wrong.

Puck ignores the snide tone and grits his teeth together audibly. "You have _no _idea what you're talking about, Lopez."

"Oh," Santana quirks a brow quickly. "I think I do."

Warmth trickles down the side of her face, and she brings one hand up to wipe it away when fingers curl around her ankle and she looks down to find Brittany staring up at her. Eyes darting between eyes, she tries to figure out what the other girl is trying to say and narrows her eyes. There's a warning... She doesn't know _what _warning... But there's one there. If only she was fucking telepathic.

She doesn't even get time to attempt to figure it out before Puck moves beside her; and then she's staring into a fist that's coming at her _fast. _It hits her in the jaw _really _hard, and she stumbles back from the impact – not falling over because of the grip Brittany still has on her leg.

"Punch me all you want," Santana manages to get out, bending over and clutching her knees with both hands; dizzy from the punch. She coughs once, twice, giving herself a breather to recover before straightening up. "You're not going to win either way."

Puck moves quickly; jerking forward and latching onto the lapels of her bloodied shirt and yanking until their noses are touching and he's staring down at her with a dangerous gleam to his eyes and harsh, infuriated pants beating against her mouth. "Shut up."

Brittany shifts below, and Santana holds a hand out by her side; low enough so Puck can't see it. It's a silent _stay still _or _stay there, _and Brittany slides back to her original position; legs curled underneath her and arms hovering like she's a snap away from moving.

"You kill me," Santana starts, bringing her hands up to grip at Puck's trembling wrists. "Brittany will never forgive you."

Puck takes in a deep breath, his face shadowed and menacing. "She'll be _mine._"

"She'll _never _be yours, don't you get that, Puckerman?"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." Puck pauses each sentence by tugging harshly on Santana's collar so they're about a millimetre away from each other. But Santana continues. She's breaking Puck, and now he's too far out to go back to playing her at his own game.

"Whether I'm dead or whether I'm alive... Britt and I belong to each other."

Anger flares even brighter behind Puck's eyes, and he tightens his fist so his knuckles dig harshly into her collarbone. It's painful, but nothing compared to her other injuries. She's endured worse.

"Nothing is _ever _going to change that." Santana sees the pain, hurt and fury etch across his face and she restrains the urge to smirk.

Puck hovers, his fists clenching and loosening like he's debating whether to let go of her or not. She watches the different emotions flash behind his eyes as they dart between her and Brittany, and she inhales deeply, holding it because she doesn't know what's too happen. She never thought she'd get this far. Talking him into letting them go. Puck's always been about physical shit; never about talking. Probably why he suggested this fist match in the first place.

It's a losing game though; because when Puck releases her and she feels her feet touch the floor completely – before she was on her tiptoes – her eyes sink down to Brittany, and she watches the girl breathe out a deep sigh of relief; like they've won. That's the breaking point for Puck, because one second she's about to reach down and pull Brittany to her feet, even though with her strength she'll probably fall over (she's shocked she can actually stand on her own at the moment) and then the next Puck's manhandling her and she's staring into a fist that's crashing towards her face with more power than before.

"Fuck," he punches her to pause his sentence. "You," he does it again. "Santana," a powerful punch is delivered to her jaw and she feels a few teeth wobble with the pressure as blood curdles inside her mouth and seeps out the corner of her lips; down her chin and onto her once-white tank top. This is a battle she's not going to win, and whereas there was hope before, there's now nothing.

She wobbles nervously, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when she feels Puck hands snap away from her, catching her on the chin and sending her toppling over. Undoubtedly there's going to be a bruise on her ass from that fall, but with her other injuries... That'll probably be pleasant looking. Her elbows graze the concrete as she tries to steady herself, her eyes fluttering shut as the flesh above her eyebrow hangs further and now it feels like someone just chucked a bucket of warm water over her face. She must be bleeding profusely.

Grunts echo through her ears as she tries to wrench open her eyes; and when they finally crack open enough for her to see what's going on, her heart almost stops. Brittany's _on _Puck's back, clawing at his face with her hands, trying to cover his vision as his large hands grip at her thighs. The blonde yelps out when a particularly hard squeeze at her thighs sends her lurching off him, and then Puck's spinning around; back to Santana.

She shouldn't, but her heart's pounding furiously, there's so much pain and ache in her body that she could possibly be dying, and Puck's way bigger than her... But she scrambles to her feet and kicks at Puck's legs. He falls to his knees, growling as he tries to recover but she doesn't let him and swings around to lumber her fist straight at her face; effectively pushing Brittany away so she isn't in harms way. Puck slams to the floor, and she makes a quick move to straddle him, kneeling onto his arms so she can get a clearer shot at his face.

She keeps punching, and punching, and punching until she can't feel anything but the sheer anger, pain and frustration that Puck's put Brittany through over the past few months. She keeps hitting him until her knuckles bleed and break, and until she can no longer feel anything else but the flesh curving and bones cracking underneath her knuckles. She keeps throwing her fists into his face until all she can see is the light slowly fading out of his eyes... And even then she doesn't stop.

"San..." she hears from behind her. "Santana, stop."

The voice is pleading, and she feels it curl around her heart. Never in her wildest dreams would she ever think Brittany would see her like this. So angry. So _pissed _that she's punching a body that's no longer responding. She never thought Brittany would see how much she's changed, and how much of a monster she's turned into over the last few years. Not until now did she think any of that.

"Please..." Brittany whispers as her fingers curl around Santana's wrist. "Please..." Brittany voice cracks with a sob. "Just stop."

Santana sucks in a sharp gasp, feeling her whole body slump as she stares down at the bloodied, bruised and broken face of someone she used to trust. Without responding, she slowly brings herself up, ignoring the jolting pain bouncing through her body and staggers backwards until arms wrap around her waist and support her weak body.

"He's out..." Brittany whispers into her ear; her tone laced with fear and anxiety. "You've done it San... We're safe."

"Safe..." Santana parrots breathlessly, turning and throwing her arm over Brittany's shoulder as she's lead towards the door; her entire body sagging into the side of Brittany's. Her mind is swimming, and she feels something click inside of her; like her entire body knows everything's over. All of it... It's over. No more stalkers. No more disturbances. No more fearing for Brittany's safety. Nothing but just her and Brittany. And it almost brings a smile to her face as she finds herself standing about five metres away from the door...

Except...

_God, _she wishes there wasn't an _except._

A gun cocks from behind them and both their bodies freeze. Like horror movies always say... The killer always comes back. Apparently, sometimes twice. Why oh why wasn't she prepared for this?

"If I can't have her," Puck hisses heavily. "No-one can."

Santana twists her head in slow motion. She watches Brittany's chest move quickly as she inhales sharply... She hears as Puck grunts from the floor, twisting the gun in his palm as his trigger finger presses down and aims straight at Brittany – which at his angle would send a bullet straight into her brain. She sees the sheer panic and fear in blue eyes, which flicker to her ever so slowly as the sound of a gun reloading pierces her ear drum and sends fear straight to the pit of her stomach.

The only thing she's grateful for in this moment is that damn slow motion, because it gives her time to mouth _I love you _a second before memories flash before her eyes and she feels the real need for this job to sink in.

* * *

><p><em>They were sitting on Santana's bed, bodies pressed tightly together and lips pressed even tighter. Brittany was on top, perched on tanned thighs with her ankles locked at the small of the other girls back; and Santana sat there happily with her legs stretched out in front of her. <em>

_They were kissing slow and thoughtful; with no need to go any further as all the emotions and feelings they have poured out through each brush of their lips. Pale fingers curled into dark locks, tugging closer as Brittany smiled into the kiss, and Santana moaned back, feeling a tongue flick against her own; teasing and enticing._

"_God," Santana breathed out into Brittany's lips. "I love you."_

_Brittany grinned, her lips stretching until only the ledges of their top lips were touching. "I love you too."_

_Leaning forward, Santana caught Brittany's lower lip between her own and sucked gently; drawing it out until she felt a low, vibrating groan slip into her mouth. She smirked, sliding her hands up to Brittany's waist and pulling together like they're bodies were about to mould into one. Heat radiated through both their bodies, and she knew in that moment, with lips curving around her own, smiling with content, that this is what she wanted to do. Like forever. Without any doubt._

"_I could do this forever," Santana whispered, tilting her head and brushing her lips of Brittany's softly._

_The corner of pink lips pulled up slightly into a shy smile. "Me too."_

_Santana brought her hand up, brushing the back of it over a creamy cheek and backwards to push a lock of blonde hair behind a now tinged-pink ear. "Why are you blushing?" She whispered, eyes squinting quickly in confusion._

_Brittany ducked her head, burying it into the crook of Santana's neck as her arms looped around a tanned neck. She muffled something unintelligible, and Santana couldn't help but grin; because even though she didn't hear what was said... She knew it was something cute. Anything Brittany ever said was cute. So this would be no different._

"_Baby," Santana brought her head back enough to slip one hand between them and under a pale chin. "Look at me, Britt."_

_Slowly, Brittany lifted her head, bringing her eyes until they met with brown. Almost instantly, she shied away, trying to snuggle back into Santana's neck like an animal being taken from it's nest. Santana suddenly had a massive urge to hold Brittany and squeeze her because sometimes Brittany was just too damn cute. _Fuck.

"_Why did you blush?"_

_That time, Santana heard. _

"_You said forever," Brittany muffled into Santana's collarbone, brushing her lips over the protruding ledge._

_Santana bit down the urge to shudder underneath the touch; instead leaning forward until she could press their lips back together and begin a kiss that frankly, she never wanted to end. Brittany's nose nudged against her cheek, eyelashes fluttering onto the skin as their mouths parted, allowing tongues to tentatively lick at each other; almost like they were testing the waters. She hummed, feeling teeth graze against lower lip and then it was like nothing else existed. All she could feel was warmth beneath her skin; all she could smell was Brittany's coconut and almond shampoo and all she could taste was love and eternal adoration._

_They parted slowly, but kept their faces close and foreheads pressed together as heavy breaths were traded between them. Everything inside of her made her want to keep kissing Brittany; but there was a little something more that made her want something different. To say something that had been lingering at the back of her mind for a good few weeks. From the moment she realized it back when she was watching Brittany sleep and listening to her own heart thrumming a steady beat that seemed to whisper _Brittany, Brittany, Brittany.

"_I mean forever," she breathed out, licking her lips and moaning lightly at Brittany lingering on them. "Me and you."_

"_Yeah?" Brittany muttered quietly, her voice wavering with uncertainty as her fingers clenched and unclenched in dark locks._

_Santana just smiled lightly and nodded, leaning up until they were kissing again._

_Wendy from Peter Pan once said that 'Forever is an awfully long time' – but with Brittany in her arms, kissing her softly and sweetly... She didn't seem to think it was long enough._

* * *

><p>With that last memory in her head, and Brittany's eyes widening in realization as Santana takes a step into the line of fire, a gunshot goes off.<p>

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><p><strong>Aaah please tell me what you thought! Love hearing your comments guys!<strong>


	19. epilogue

**Ff [.] net is fucking up, so apologies for the re-uploading and all that crap!**

**At the beginning of this chapter you might be a bit like.. _Whut? _But keep reading and it'll make sense.**

**It's short, only because this is the final and I didn't want to ruin it by writing something that didn't make sense.**

**Thank you so much guys! This is the last chapter so I'd just like to say how grateful I am for you guys sticking with me for so long. Seriously, I love you so much and I'm so happy for all your reviews and comments! You're truly amazing and you are why I write! You inspire me!**

**Hope you enjoy! And thank you again!**

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><p><strong>Title: <strong>The Bodyguard [Chapter Eighteen/Epilogue]  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I own nothing.  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>4.2k

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><p><em><strong>A month later...<strong>_

It's raining. It's overcast. It's grey. Like all the goodness in the world has just been sucked out of it.

Everything that's suitable for a funeral, really.

If there were sunshine, rainbows and bright colours illuminating the greenness of the grass... Well, frankly? It just wouldn't fit. There's nothing cheerful about this day at all. There's nothing cheerful about walking through dirt and mud; freshly damp from the recent overnight rain to linger over a gravestone of someone you used too know. There's nothing cheerful about zigging and zagging through hundreds of gravestones, trying to find the one you know because you just _know _that they're in here.

There's absolutely _nothing _cheerful about that.

Especially when it's Brittany.

She steps out of the black car; which holds Quinn and Rachel inside and ducks out into the rain. Droplets create a small pitter-patter noise onto her face, but it's quickly removed when she takes out her umbrella and opens it up above her. Glancing up, she notices just how dark and gloomy the sky is. How it's like there's a strange melancholy to the atmosphere that just makes her want to throw her head back and laugh bitterly.

"Where are you going, Britt?" Quinn asks from inside the car; the passenger seat to be exact. She's still having difficulties with her lung after that damn bullet went straight through a tube thingy in her right one, and it's been advised that until it's one hundred percent healed... She doesn't operate any heavy machinery or whatever. Including a car because a cough could send her careering straight into a brick wall. But Brittany doesn't want to think about that; she doesn't want to think about losing someone else.

She turns slightly, only enough to show Quinn her profile before responding. "I just need a minute up there."

Rachel lifts her hand from the gear shift when Quinn opens her mouth again, and Brittany silently thanks the brunette with a weak smile. Breathing in deeply, she begins to walk through the mud; listening to the squelch her boots make as they sink into the mucky soil beneath each step. It's not far away, so by the time she's stopped paying attention to the moist noise beneath her feet, she sees it up ahead. And for some reason, it looks so much bigger than it did about twenty minutes ago when she and about thirty other people were gathered around it.

Maybe it's because now she's alone, just staring at the smooth edges of the carved stone.

Maybe it's because now it's finally all sinking in, and even though she shouldn't; she feels a tear creep behind her eyelids and slowly drip down her cold-to-the-touch cheek.

Or maybe it's because when she gets close enough to trace her finger over the engraved letters, smiling weakly at the small 'a' and 'n' that she knew came with a way-too-girly swirl, she remembers all the times they had together. Even though some of them weren't great.

"Hey," she whispers; knowing nothing's going to respond but feeling like she has to say something now that they're alone. "I don't really know why I'm doing this..." She licks her lips, tasting the staleness of the rain and flinching slightly. "I just feel like I needed to say a few things, because I never really had time when you were..." she finishes off the sentence by saying the world _'alive'_ inside her mind.

"I just..." Brittany sucks in a deep breath. "I don't really know how to say this," she shakes her head at her own stupidity. She knows that like, _forever_, certain people have been saying that she's not stupid. But she knows there's a naïve part inside of her; one that can't seem to see past the unicorns and rainbows. However at heart she knows the differences between the good and the bad... And that she shouldn't be standing here because, well... She shouldn't have to be. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Just say what's in your heart, Britt."

Brittany feels her shoulders tense for a split second when the voice echoes through her mind, but then hands slide around her midsection, tightening on her abs and she sinks into the embrace. It's like the weight of the world was just lifted off her shoulders and she can breathe again.

"I'm here," a voice whispers gently, finishing by pressing soft kisses to the piece of skin showing on her shoulder. "Just say what you want."

Clenching her eyes shut, Brittany breathes in deeply again, feeling oxygen sink into every crevice of her heart and readies herself.

"I know what you did was wrong," she says to the gravestone. "And I hate that you did what you did... But there was a time when we were close; and even though it may not have been what you wanted, I was so grateful for it."

She feels heat prick at her eyelids, and instinctively wipes her cheek just in case.

"So thank you, Noah," she whispers, shuffling forward; out of the embrace and crouches down to come face to face with the gravestone. "Thank you for being there when Santana couldn't."

Santana reaches down from behind her, pressing her palm to Brittany's shoulder in a comforting manner. It causes a sob to rip from the pit of Brittany's stomach because _yes, _Puck shouldn't have done what he did. He shouldn't have done anything... But she can't help but feel like it was her fault. He was there for her during her hardest times, being a shoulder to cry on because Santana couldn't; and whilst there's a part of her that hates him for the recent events... It's still no reason to disrespect the dead. Once upon a time Puck was sweet... And kind – contrary to popular belief.

"And I'm sorry things had to work out this way," Brittany says, quietly, stretching out to run her finger along the 'N' in his engraved name. "But now things will be easier;" she sucks in a shaky breath. "For everyone, and you won't be able to hurt anyone anymore."

When she finishes tracing his name, she smooths her palm along the top ridge and stands. Instantly, Santana's there behind her; hair drenched from the rain and coat moist, wrapping her into a tight embrace. She buries her nose into the crook of Santana's neck, looping her free arm around it and pulling until the black of their clothing moulds and it's hard to define where they begin.

Because yes, she does hate Puck for what he did to her. To Santana. To Quinn and Rachel. He hates them for it; but there was a time when he wasn't psychotic and out of control. And she remembers him like that – despite all the bad things that happened.

* * *

><p>Santana breathes in deeply, running her hand through Brittany's hair as she holds her close. She doesn't get why her girlfriend feels the need to talk to Puck, or to even give him an ounce of respect; but she gets Brittany. And so there must be a reason – whether she understands it or not – that Brittany would choose to stand at his grave, running her slender fingers along the ridge of his engraved name, and talk to him like he never tried to kill Santana, or stalk Brittany, or do anything of those insane things he did.<p>

"It's okay," she whispers into Brittany's hair, pressing her lips to the moist locks. "It's okay."

Brittany nods, as much as she can in the position and Santana feels lips graze on her pulse point. "I hate him for what he did to you," she hears muffled into her skin. "But he wasn't always like that, San."

Santana knows why Brittany's doing this. She can tell by the blonde's tone that these words are only being spoken because Brittany feels like she needs to explain why she's doing this: standing in the pouring rain, talking to the grave of someone who harmed so many people that both of them love; including themselves. But it doesn't matter. Not to her anyway.

"I know, baby," Santana's voice is wavering from uncertainty. Anger still pulses through her every time she hears his name. But she does remember how they used to laugh together; she remembers how he used to hug her when she needed it or make a crude joke. It will never replace her recent memories of him... But they're still there. Still lingering in the back of her mind and making her stomach drop a little because there once was a time where she could call Puck her friend. And now he's gone... She can't help but feel a little nostalgia for it.

* * *

><p><em>A single gunshot rang through the vacant space of the warehouse. Santana's eyes were clenched tightly together, expecting the burst of hot pain singeing through her skin at any moment; but it never came. It took about a minute of waiting to realise that nothing came because nothing was <em>going _to come. The gunshot didn't come from Puckerman; or herself; or Brittany. _

_Shit, Brittany, she thought; eyes snapping open as she scanned every inch of the other girl's body. Brittany was in a similar position, eyes squeezed shut and face expectant. Santana brought her hand up to a creamy cheek, brushing the back of it over the skin and waiting until they were staring into each other's eyes for reassurance that neither were hurt. A small half-relieved smile tugged at pink lips, and Santana breathed out until her face contorted similarly. _

_It was only then that they realised the gunshot had happened, and snapped their head rounds just in time to watch Puck's face drop, head waver and legs wobble as he slowly glanced down to the blood seeping through his shirt, on the left side; right where his heart was. _

_They both watched as an apologetic smirk crossed his face when he realised he'd been shot. _

_They both watched as he fell to his knees, clutching at his chest and tugging the fabric away to see if the blood would stop. But it didn't. _

_They both watched as he sucked in his last breath and fell to the floor, face first; lifeless._

_Santana's mouth dropped open and she felt Brittany's arms wrap around her as a loud sob escaped the blonde's lips. She instinctively held her back, tightening the grip around her waist as she kept her eyes trained on the lifeless body of the once great Noah Puckerman. It was so surreal; to know that there was no way Puck could ever come back from that..._

"_No need to say thank you," a croaky voice came from behind the body. Brown eyes flickered up, meeting a smiling Sam who's face was etched with intense pain. "Last time I save your ass."_

_She couldn't stop the smile that crawled onto her lips as Sam sunk back to the floor; the shotgun making a loud clang as it hit the ground next to him. She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. All she knew that was from now on, they were safe. _

_Actually safe. Because Puck was dead and now nothing could come between them._

_And for once she actually felt like there was light at the end of the tunnel; instead of another set of stupid train lights._

* * *

><p>"<em>San!" Brittany practically threw herself onto Santana's bed, half-lying on top of her as she peppered thousands of kisses over a tanned face. "Oh my God! I've missed you so much!"<em>

_Santana squirmed, scrunching up her face. It'd only been twelve hours since they'd left the warehouse. Shortly after Puck took his last breath, they both lumbered their way over to Sam, managed to haul him onto his feet – and simultaneously realizing that sound of bone snapping she'd heard was his leg – and supported him as they headed out the warehouse. _

_It only took about 45 minutes after Santana called Karofsky for the police to turn up; take their statements and then watched as the coroners took Puck away in a black body bag. Brittany sobbed the entire time, whilst the paramedic's dabbed at Santana's face and tried to stitch up whatever they could. Apparently most of it was physical damage; apart from the four broken ribs down her left side and a possibly fractured cheekbone; so it would only be a matter of time before she was in working order again._

_(The female paramedic joked that she wasn't too chase after anymore psycho's – but Santana just glared until the woman scuttled off. Way too soon to be making cracks at the situation.)_

_The entire time Brittany never spoke; just held onto their tangled fingers tighter than ever before and watched with blank blue eyes as the police stood with their notebooks, scribbling down details and trying to figure out the amount of blood and where it came from. After Santana heard one of them say 'we need to interview the victims'; she hopped off the back of the Ambulance, marched over and pointed to her face – muttering "does it look like I want a fucking interview?" in which Brittany dragged her away._

_They made their way back to the hospital, quickly discussing with the doctor Quinn's release date. They had two days until the blonde could get out, and so they rang the airline, and booked a few seats; still clutching onto each other like their life depended on it. Rachel sent them to a hotel that night, and they barely made in into the room before their lips were pressed together and they were ripping each other's clothes off – careful of Santana's injuries obviously._

_They made love with intense emotion that night; holding onto each other and dragging out each stroke of their fingers and tongues because they knew how close they'd gotten to losing each other. _

_Brittany's lips tasted like fear and worry, but there was also an underlying tang of hope for the future. Santana made sure to kiss away all the uncertainties; whispering 'I love you's' into pale skin as she made her way down an unbelievably perfect body, worshipping every inch and groaning at a taste she thought would never be able to have again. Her fingers mapped out each piece of skin, engraining it into her brain because if it wasn't for Sam, they would never be able to touch each other with love and tenderness. They'd never be able to kiss each other like their lives depended on it if everything had gone wrong._

_And both of them knew that._

_It was only in the early hours of the morning, when they were cuddled up, facing each other and trading slow, lazy kisses that they whispered how much they needed each other. And how they'd never let anything get in the way of them ever again._

* * *

><p><em>Santana walked into the hospital the next morning, greeting Sam with an awkward hug that he could barely give back because he was propped up, eating the hospital Jell-O and laughing at a supposed comedic reality show. <em>

"_How's the leg?" She asked, jutting her chin towards the enormous cast covering his left leg from top of his thigh to the bend in his ankle._

_Sam winced as he pushed himself up. "Puckerman really did a number on me," he whined, pulling on the cord holding his leg up to adjust the height. Apparently a 90 degree angle isn't comfortable. Santana had to restrain the laughter at how much difficulty he was having to do such a simple task. "You too, by the looks of it."_

_Santana managed a smile; ignoring the ache in her face form her stitched eyebrow. Turns out that Puck punched her in the same place so many times that it actually tore the skin above her eyebrow, and would probably need plastic surgery if she ever wanted to get it back to its original state. However Brittany ran her finger over it the night before and whispered how sexy scars were... So Santana reasoned to herself that maybe one little scar wouldn't be too bad._

"_Yeah," she agreed. "But it's pretty bad ass."_

_Sam let out a small chuckle, nodding his head. "Yeah. Shame broken bones don't do anything though."_

_She settled down in the chair beside him, deciding that maybe she needed to spend a little time with him. "What's the deal with that?"_

"_Well," Sam ran his hand over the cast. "Apparently my femur is fractured, which is pretty hard to do considering it's stronger than concrete, and there's a straight break on my tibia."_

_Santana narrowed her eyes. All the medical talk was lost and she could tell that Sam had memorised that. There's no way in hell he could've just known that. "Have you got a hot doctor or something, Evans?" She joked, trying to lighten the situation. Ever since they'd said goodbye at the warehouse, everywhere they went was just dragging down with melancholy and darkness. Sure, in the past she was all for it, but it just got tedious. She wanted to be happy, and now with... _things _out the way... She could try._

"_She's alright," Sam shrugged, placing down his Jell-O cup after taking the last bite. "But I was just interested. Puck knew his shit."_

_And there it was again. The sadness hanging in the air and over their heads. Santana's head ducked almost instinctively, and she reached out to place her hand over his... Which felt weird because they weren't exactly best of friends. But they were the closest each other had (after Brittany for Santana of course)._

"_You had to do it," Santana said, resolutely. Because she could only imagine the guilt Sam felt. Ever since Sam came to Brittany's house and was offered the job, him and Puck were basically inseparable. "He was going to kill all of us if he had the chance."_

_Sam's bottom lip quivered. "I know," he agreed. "But he was..."_

_She could hear 'good friend' without it being spoken... And even though, sure, he was a complete psycho, there was still a part of him that remained the mohawked douchebag from McKinley High. People change, sometimes drastically; but there's always a little something inside of them that remains the same. Brittany once said it was their soul. That's why she and Brittany never strayed to the point of no return; because their souls needed each other, and would never be wholly completely without each other._

"_I know, Sam." Santana replied, quietly. "Thank you by the way." Her face fell into a serious expression; not that it wasn't before. It's just that Brittany was in her mind and she had to bite down the urge to smile. God, she's such a sap. "For saving us."_

_Sam looked up through watery eyes. "Getting all soft on me?"_

_Taking her hand away, Santana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Shut up. I'm trying here."_

"_I know. And I meant what I said; that we were in it together. I wasn't going to leave you."_

_Santana sucked in her bottom lip, nodding. She could feel heat pricking at the back of her eyelids. "Yeah, I know."_

_It was in that moment that they went silent. She could almost hear Sam's brain mulling over the memories and 'lad jokes' he had between him and Puck; back when things weren't so...Complicated. Sensing where it was going, she sat up and clapped her hands together; breaking him from his thoughts before someone started crying. That would just be uncomfortable._

"_You know, I did actually think it was you for a while," she admitted._

_Sam let out a throaty chuckle. "I know," he pursed his lips. "I could tell. I would've been suspicious too."_

"_It was just you turned up out of nowhere and reacted the way you did about Britt and I..." she trailed off; her eyes widening at the awkwardness she thought she was to bring into the conversation._

"_I know," he exhaled loudly. "And I know I've apologised for that, but I am sorry. It just came as a bit of a shock."_

"_I can imagine."_

"_Yeah."_

_The sound of the door opening broke their lacking conversation, and they turned to see the doctor walk in. She was tall. A blonde and had legs for days. But nothing in comparison to Brittany, Santana thought as her girlfriend popped into her mind. Looking back to Sam, she watched the grin spread across his face and sensed her leave. She tapped his hand, winked at him quickly as the blonde doctor grabbed the file from the end of his bed and flicked through it, and then headed towards the door. But not before his voice pulled her back for one last sentence._

"_When you marry that girl I shotgun the best man position."_

_Santana chuckled and shook her head. "Whatever, Evans. You'll have to fight Fabray for it."_

_Sam lifted his arm, flexing it and revealing a rippling muscle underneath his hospital gown. "I think I got it."_

"_Sure, Sam," she smiled. "Sure."_

_And then she left, making sure to bypass a nearby jewellery shop on her way back to the hotel. Just because._

* * *

><p>Brittany lifts her head until their eyes connect. Santana brings a hand away from the other girl's waist, up to her cheek where she rubs away a lone tear and whispers; "Let's go home."<p>

"Let's go home," Brittany repeats, flashing a smile that could light up the entire town.

Santana sighs, smiling a little as she drops her hands, threads their fingers together and pulls them towards the car.

Their journey may not have been easy. There may have been more than a few obstacles that got in the way of their relationship, and tried to tear them apart; but it didn't matter. It will never matter, because together they're indestructible, and whether it's a bomb on a boat... Or a psychotic stalker that was once an old friend, there's no way in hell anything can ever tear them apart.

Because she's Santana, and Brittany's... _Well, _Brittany. And they're meant to be.

* * *

><p><strong>The end! God I've loved writing this fic so I've hoped you've enjoyed reading it!<strong>

**Make sure to check out my other fics!**

**Thank you so much for your awesome reviews, and if you'd like to leave a comment on this, then please do so. It'll be greatly received! Thanks!**


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